


The Smooth as Glass Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 13:00:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>THRUSH plans to melt down the Sahara Desert and only Napoleon and Illya stand between them and success?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smooth as Glass Affair

PROLOGUE                                                                                        

 

 

It was the type of autumn day that carried the promise of great things.  The air was crisp, but the sun was not quite ready to release its summer-like grip.  The trees that flanked the golf course were already starting to exchange their green coats for the more colorful reds, oranges and yellows of fall.  Despite the promise that the day made to him, Napoleon Solo was finding that some things were indeed beyond his grasp.  He ignored the sun, the leaves, and the cool air.  In fact, he was a picture of focused attention, all of his concentration aimed at dropping a little white ball into a four-inch diameter hole.

 

Illya Kuryakin lifted the flag from the 18th hole and carefully averted his eyes.  Nothing made his partner more ill at ease than to have someone watch him putt and, considering the way Napoleon was playing today, Napoleon needed all the help he could get.

 

 When the ball veered off at the last moment and came to a stop against Illya's foot, the Russian shook his head in genuine sympathy and murmured, "I'm sorry, Napoleon.  It's just not your day."  He toed the ball in and removed a scorecard from his back pocket.

               

"It wasn't your fault," Napoleon said, sighing and returning the putter to the golf bag.  He shouldered the bag wearily. "It's just not fair.  You hit a three under par and I didn't even break it.  And you don't even like golf."

 

 "You did double bogey the seventh hole," Illya said, hefting up Napoleon's extra set of clubs onto his shoulder and slapping his partner on the back affectionately.  "And there was that eagle on two."      

 

 "See what I mean?  You even pick up the terminology like you've been playing the game all your life.  Some days there is just no justice in the world," Napoleon grumbled, good naturedly, trying to take the loss in stride.  After all, this had been his idea.  "Maybe we should have played tennis instead."

               

 "Come on, Napoleon, don't take it so hard.  I'll buy you a drink.  You'll feel much better after you've drowned your sorrows in a nice, cool, iced tea."  The Russian patted his partner's back consolingly.  At Napoleon's raised eyebrows, Illya continued, "In your present state of mind, I'm certainly not giving you something alcoholic.  Before I could stop you, you'd be out divoting the fairway and chasing the lovely ladies around the water hazards."

 

 

The clubhouse was an elaborate affair of mahogany, oak and heavy brass fixtures. It had been originally designed to appeal to men, an outdated notion now, but one that the decor still carried.  There was nothing feminine in the heavy wood tables and chairs, the dark colors that covered the furniture and curtained the windows. 

 

Along one wall various trophies won by members were displayed.  Napoleon had his share up on the shelves, preferring to leave them there to collect dust than cluttering up his apartment.  Still, after a day like today, he'd have rather a lower profile.  He was greeted loudly as he came through the bar with his partner, forced to take the joking and kidding with good humor.  Napoleon Solo did not like to lose, he never had, not at school, nor in his military or work career and certainly not in his play.  That drive had made him excel in just about everything he tried his hand at.  It had made him class valedictorian, made him a track star, a captain in the military and the youngest chief enforcement agent UNCLE had ever known.  Unfortunately, it also made times like this very difficult to swallow, even if Illya was being careful not to rub it in.

 

They found a quiet table in a dark corner and Illya ordered their drinks before turning in his chair to silently contemplate the waning fall day, giving Napoleon the time and quiet that his bruised ego required to nurse itself back to health.

 

Napoleon was toying with the sprig of mint in his glass when a waiter, looking both concerned and slightly apprehensive, approached their table, his serving tray held in front of him as if it were a shield and they a pair of man-eating dragons.

               

 "Pardon me, but are either of you gentlemen Mr. Solo?"

 

"Napoleon Solo, in the flesh," Napoleon said, dropping the stem back into the glass, leaving his hands free, just in case.  "Who wants to know?"  In his business, there were a lot of people that he associated with that would be as content to be attending his funeral as shaking his hand.  An espionage agent's life was not an easy one.

 

"You have a phone call at the bar, Mr. Solo.  The caller wouldn't give his name.  He said that it was of the utmost urgency and importance that he talks to you.  Would you like to take it there or shall I plug a phone in here?"

 

"I'll go into the bar."  Obviously Waverly had discovered one of Napoleon's last hideouts and now had a little something for Napoleon and his partner to fix up.  With any luck, it would be something small, like overthrowing a government or blowing up a heavily guarded THRUSH compound, something he could accomplish before his dinner date.

 

 Napoleon watched momentary wariness disappear from the face of his partner to be replaced by a look of resignation.  He leaned back in his chair and sipped his iced tea.  "Give the Old Man my regards, but tell him I broke my leg rescuing a kitten from a tree and will regrettably be unable to join him tonight."

 

The waiter looked a little confused by this apparent lie, but said nothing.  When the dark-haired man he knew to be Napoleon stood, the waiter took an encouraging few steps towards the bar.

 

"In your dreams, Kuryakin,"

 

 "Solo here."  Napoleon spoke into the receiver as he unconsciously smoothed his hair into place, as if Waverly would see his slightly disheveled appearance and disapprove.  Napoleon was understandably startled to be greeted by a strange voice. 

 

 "Hello, Mr. Solo, I have a treat for you.  Am I to assume that you are taking my call in the bar?"

 

“Yes, I am.  Who is this, please?"  Napoleon knew well over a hundred voices of THRUSH and UNCLE agents, but the voice was unfamiliar.  Nor was he surprised when the caller ignored his request.

 

"Go up to the second story balcony and take a look out the window at the sand trap you played so horribly this morning." The phone clicked off and Napoleon winced.  Not at the tingle of malice and sarcasm in the caller's voice, but at the fact that someone else besides Illya had observed the terrible game he had turned in today.

 

 Napoleon replaced the phone and ordered a martini. While he waited, he played the message back in his head. The voice was totally alien to him and he never forgot a voice.  An UNCLE agent could end up dead if he did.  The martini arrived, very cold and very dry, just the way he liked it.  He paid for the drink, leaving a better than 15% tip and then walked back to the table.

 

"Illya, would you care to join me for a trip down Memory Lane?"

 

"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

 

"Then please do."  Napoleon climbed a short flight of stairs at the back of the bar and walked out onto the second story balcony.

 

"Remember that?" he asked, pointing to the sand pit.

 

 "Of course, the pit that your dreams will be haunted by for many nights to come.  Do you have a point to make or shall I continue to try and guess your motivations?  What does this have to do with what Mr. Waverly wants?"

 

"It wasn't Mr. Waverly on the phone.  The caller said to come out and take a look at this."

 

"I'm looking, but I don't see --" Illya was interrupted by a thin whistling sound that grew until it threatened to split his head in two.  Despite the pain, he became aware that the sand was starting to glow a brilliant red.  By the time the whistle faded, all that was left of the sand trap was a bright, sun‑reflecting pool of rapidly cooling glass.

 

"What in the name of God?" Illya muttered as they were joined by several other members and guests of the club.

 

Napoleon merely sipped his martini before correcting, "No, it should be, what in the name of THRUSH?"

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

 

Alexander Waverly studied the piece of glass for a long time before tossing it down to rest in the center of the circular table.  All the while, he puffed incessantly at his pipe as if somewherein the smoke he exhaled he would find the answers to his questions.

 

Throughout all of this, Napoleon and Illya remained quietly seated at the table.  Napoleon picked at a lint ball on his golf sweater, Illya stared, unseeing, at his hands.  Both jumped slightly at the sound the glass made as it clattered on the table.

 

 

"What confuses me is why THRUSH should tip their hand so early in the game," Waverly muttered.  "Why call you of all people, Mr. Solo, to blatantly announce their intentions to you?  Surely they knew it would mean instant reaction on our part."

 

"Excuse me, Sir, but we don't know that it is indeed THRUSH," Napoleon said.  "The caller didn't identify himself and I didn't recognize his voice as any THRUSH agent that I am familiar with."  Napoleon abandoned his sweater to focus his full attention on Waverly. 

 

Illya remained unchanged, still lost in thought.  The older man apparently didn't like this and asked, "And what is your opinion of all of this, Mr. Kuryakin?"

 

"An independent, I would think, sir," Illya said, blinking and sitting back.  Obviously he'd been listening to every word of the conversation.  "Ever since we cracked THRUSH's latest code, we have been able to keep abreast of most of their projects.  There's been no mention of anything even faintly resembling something like this.  I would venture that it's someone who has connected Napoleon with some sort of firm, one of our front companies possibly."

 

"Then this was, what?" Napoleon paused.

 

"Merely a demo, something to whet your appetite for his product," Illya finished smoothly.  "But I am also certain that the demonstration for Mr. Solo's interest will not go by undetected by THRUSH.  In fact, this is right up their alley."

 

"And what do we do in the meantime?  We don't even have a hint as to the identity of this fellow," Napoleon said, pointing out what seemed to him to be the obvious.

 

"We will evidently have to wait for him to contact you, Mr. Solo," Waverly said evenly, taking control of the conversation again. "Mr. Kuryakin will establish a telephone tracking device in your apartment."

 

"Fine, he's been bugging me all day anyhow," Napoleon said, with a smile on his lips as he looked over at his partner.  The Russian looked unimpressed. 

 

 

 

 

 Napoleon tossed down the magazine he'd been glancing at and began to flip through the channels of the television, barely pausing to acknowledge one program before going on the next.

 

 Illya Kuryakin glanced up over the rim of his glasses briefly before returning his attention to the text he was studying.  Lasers were a rapidly expanding field and he felt as if the knowledge he obtained was obsolete the moment he gained it.  As he read, he rolled a handful of what appeared to be putty into various shapes.

 

 "Napoleon, calm down," he said finally as Napoleon began a third scan of the stations.  "You're acting like a caged animal."

 

"I feel like I am.  Cooped up here, not able to leave.  I'm going stir crazy," Napoleon complained, standing to wander over to the patio door.  Below him, New York City embraced the night, greeting revelers and criminals with the same passion and enthusiasm.  It was the night that Napoleon loved and to refuse its call was nearly too much for him.

 

"It's only been twenty-four hours, Napoleon.  The gentleman is probably trying to pique your curiosity before approaching you a second time.  Considering the line of business he's in, I figure he's pretty anxious to have the sale guaranteed beforehand."                                           

 

"Why couldn't he just send me a brochure in the mail?"  Napoleon asked rhetorically, turning off the TV and picking his 'GQ' up to restlessly flip again through unread pages.  "I can't help but think that there has to be a better way to track this character down."

 

"If we had his name, there would be.  Until we get more information, we are powerless to act.  The phone call at the golf club house was too brief to be traced."

 

"Wonderful," Napoleon muttered and then looked over at the Russian.  "What are you playing with?"

 

"Something  the lab just cooked up.   It's a new explosive.  It only requires heat to set it off.  No detonator, no fuse, just good old heat.  It's really a break though."

 

"So you're rolling it back and forth in your hands, building up friction and that in turn creates heat.  Are you trying to blow us up?"

 

"I’m sorry.  It requires amplified heat, Napoleon, like a furnace or direct contact with a magnified light beam.  I can't blow it up doing this.  Otherwise, it would explode just from our body heat alone.  You couldn't even hold it."

 

"Funny guy.  May I?" he asked as Illya tossed the ball of putty to him.

 

 "Enjoy yourself."

 

"I'm sorry, Illya, but usually when I'm here and enjoying myself, it isn't with a member of my own sex.  No offense, but you're not quite as entertaining as Mona or Vickie and this wad of putty just doesn’t do it for me."

 

"Or Alice or Giselle or Elizabeth or Lynda, I'll venture.  No offense taken, but surely you do other things here besides that."  Illya put a special emphasis on the last word and Napoleon laughed at the innuendo.

 

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.  Are you hungry?"

 

"Always.  Why do you ask?"

 

"By my reckoning and by the clock on the wall, it's dinner time.  Since we can't go out, dinner will have to come to us. Heads, it's Chinese and tails, it's pizza.  Unless, of course, you prefer something a little more bohemian."  Napoleon dug a coin out of a pants pocket and Illya held out a hand.

 

"Allow me."  Illya took the coin, tossed it and slapped it onto the back of his other hand.  "Call it."

 

"Heads," Napoleon said, confident.

 

"Tails.  I prefer anchovies and olives," Illya said, starting to hand back the coin, only to pause and study it for a moment.  "Honduran?"

 

"Close, Guatemalan.  So, tell me how a Russian develops a taste for pizza, especially with anchovies?"  He trailed off as the phone rang.

 

Quickly, Illya set his machine into action and adjusted his earphones, nodding when he was ready for Napoleon to pick up the jangling telephone.

 

"Solo here."

 

"Mr. Solo, how good of you to be taking my call at home.  You saw my little demonstration?"

 

"The whole golf course did.  By now, it's spread across the front page of most of the major newspapers.  You've caused me a lot of headaches, whoever you are.  By the way, who are you and how did you get my home phone number?"

 

"I simply called your office and said I was your brother.  I'm an independent working to perfect a new way of drilling for oil."

 

"So why tell me?"

 

"You work for an export company, do you not?  International Interest Company?"

 

Napoleon recognized that to be one of UNCLE's many fronts. "Yes, of course."

 

"And does Mr. Kuryakin represent the communist bloc's interest or is he merely a coworker?"

 

“You could say that, after a fashion, he does."  Napoleon ignored Illya's snort of displeasure.

 

"I would like to export my device to nations who are having problems keeping up with OPEC nations.  Restore the balance of power, as it were."

 

"Surely you realize the potential of your device to be used as a weapon?  Its destructive powers alone could bring nations to their knees," Napoleon said, watching Illya work the tracking device.

 

"An added benefit and certainly a consideration calculated into the asking price."

 

"If it's so powerful, why do you want to get rid of it?"

 

"Because, Mr. Solo, I am not an ambitious man.  I do not want to conquer worlds or nations.  I simply want to be stinking rich for the rest of my life."  

 

"Can we meet, Mr.?" Illya signaled Napoleon that he had the number and contact could be broken now.

 

 "Broderick, Adolph Broderick.  After a fashion, we will. Before that, I have to know that you are truly interested in what I have to offer.  Do you know the phone booth at the corner of 56th and 8th Avenue?"

 

"Yes, of course, but what does that have to do..."

 

"Don't interrupt, Mr. Solo.  It's considered rude.  I would like you to be at that location with a deposit of one million American dollars tomorrow evening at exactly 7:13 p.m."

 

"Deposit?  Of a million dollars?  How much is this little device of yours going to cost us?"

 

"When you consider the potential you are receiving, not nearly enough.  You will wait there until I contact you with further instructions.  Good evening, Mr. Solo."

 

The receiver went dead in his hand and Napoleon looked at it a moment before cradling it.  "Did you get the number, Illya?" 

 

Illya pulled off the earphones and passed him a sheet of paper.  "I transmitted it to HQ and they came back with the number for a phone booth off Central Park West.  They have dispatched someone, but I have a feeling they will be too late.  This Broderick, if that's really his name, sounds a little jumpy.  I wonder if he's being bothered by someone else."

 

"Could be why he's in such a hurry to get rid of the thing.”  Napoleon reached for his communicator and twisted off the top with a practiced motion.  "Open Channel D, please."

 

"Yes, Mr. Solo?"  Waverly responded a moment later.

 

"We were just contacted by our sand‑melting friend. He's asking that I meet him at a phone booth at the corner of 56th and 8th Ave. tomorrow evening.  Both Illya and I are of the opinion that he is having some force exerted on him, although from what faction we haven't decided yet."

 

"Very good, Mr. Solo.  By all means, keep that appointment.  We must secure that device if we are to prevent THRUSH from using it as another weapon to control the world."

 

"Agreed, sir," Napoleon paused for a moment and then continued.  "He's asking for a million dollar deposit as well, sir."

 

"I will start the paperwork.  We should be able to secure that amount by the appointed hour.  I ask that you do keep your eye on it this time, Mr. Solo.  We don't want another incident like the one that happened in Cancun."

 

"Yes, sir, I understand.  Out."  Napoleon closed up the pen and tucked it away, doing his best to ignore Illya's smirk.

 

"He's never going to let you live that down, Napoleon," Illya said.  "Are you still in the mood for pizza tonight?"

 

Napoleon glanced at his wristwatch.  It was too late to call any one of the many girls he dated regularly without having to think up a long, never before repeated story.  He reached for phone, asking, "Do you have one place in particular you prefer?"

 

"Catchitori’s down on 37th."  Illya reached into his pocket and then tossed a tie clip to Napoleon.  "Just in case Mr. Broderick wants to talk to you in private tomorrow night, this will let me listen in."

 

"What sort of range does this have?" Napoleon asked, catching the clip easily and holding it up to the light to examine it.

 

"About a mile, a little less in a building." Illya's communicator interrupted him.  "Kuryakin." 

 

 

“Illya, I have that information you asked for. According to Records, we have, for your amusement, one, each, Adolph Broderick, age 32, unmarried, no family.  He was considered a rising star in his field of laser development until he was expelled from Princeton for a prank."

 

"Prank?"

 

"Something involving the dean's wife, a St. Bernard, water polo and a statue.   He's currently residing in a third-rate hotel in the Bronx, living mostly off of royalties and an occasional odd job.  His last job was with an oil company."

 

"Thanks, Carla, I owe you one."  Illya closed the communicator and looked at his partner.

 

“At least he's got color and it explains why he wants to be stinking rich, to use his words.  A couple of nights in one of those places will do it to you.  What I don't understand is why he's not marketing this thing of his around."

 

"We don't know that he's not, Napoleon," Illya said, setting the instrument case by the door.  "Perhaps he feels that he'll get the highest price from you or that you'll be the most up-and-up to deal with and perhaps the most generous with regards to patents and royalties.  The underworld and some governments are not known for their above-the-table dealings, or for keeping their old clients in fully functioning condition, if you know what I mean."

 

"All too well, I'm afraid.  So you think Broderick feels safe dealing with me?"

 

"Maybe not completely safe, but certainly safer than with someone else.  I just hope he can stay alive for the next day or so.  If THRUSH is watching him, the possibility exists that he'll never keep that appointment."

 

Napoleon nodded and took out his communicator again.  "Open Channel D, please."

 

"Channel D is open."

 

Napoleon smiled at the familiar voice of one of his many romantic conquests at UNCLE HQ.  "Ah, Martha, how are you this evening?"

 

"I'm just fine, Mr. Solo." It was apparent from the frostiness of the answer that Martha had not yet forgiven him for playing her for the patsy in a recent affair.  "What do you require, sir?"

 

Rather than pushing it with Illya within earshot, Napoleon decided to let the whole thing pass without further comment.  "Who's available tonight?"

 

"Mr. Herrera and Mr. Mazelli just returned.  Also I believe that Ms. Taddac and Mr. Sugi are on call."

 

"Patch me through to Mr. Herrera, please," Napoleon asked as he returned to the window to stare back out at the night.  Now that he was no longer restricted to his apartment, the lure of the night was much easier to resist.

 

"Herrera here," came the Spanish-accented answer a moment later.

 

Napoleon grinned at the voice and asked, " _Estaban, que pasa_?"

               

" _Nada_ , and a whole lot of it, Mr. Boss Man.  We checked out that phone booth for Illya.  Is he there?”

 

"I'm here, Estaban," Illya called out from the couch. 

 

"The phone booth was empty.  In fact, it was marked as being out of order."

 

"Broderick probably hung the sign himself to make sure he'd have exclusive use of it," Illya said, more to Napoleon than to anyone else.  "I'm not surprised that he wasn't hanging around.  Did you see any other unsavory characters?"

 

"A hooker tried to pick up Mazelli, but that was about it."  There was a strangled cry from the background and Napoleon looked over at Illya and grinned.  "We're just about to start on the paperwork."

 

"Put it on hold for a while, Estaban," Napoleon said.  "I need you to get over to a hotel in the Bronx.  Carla in Communications will have the address for you.  I want you to keep Mr. Broderick alive and well until tomorrow night."

 

"Is there trouble?"  Herrera's voice became all business.

 

"Not that we know of and we want to keep it that way.  Just keep your eyes open and report any odd activity."

 

"Understood.  Channel D closed."

 

Napoleon slid the pen back into his pocket and let the curtain fall into place.  "I have a feeling that this will be the longest night in Mr. Broderick's life."

 

"Mine, too, if that pizza doesn't get here soon," Illya muttered as he picked up his textbook up.  "You did get a large, didn't you?"

 

"Nope," Napoleon answered with a smile as he settled back into his recliner.  At Illya's reprimanding look, he continued, "Apparently you eat there a lot.  They offered a large, extra-large and an Illya-large.  I got the latter.  I have the feeling we're going to both need the extra calories tomorrow night."   

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

 

Napoleon Solo rubbed his gloved hands together and snuck a glance at his watch.  It was 7:10 and he was freezing.  It might still technically be fall, but the nights were definitely working on winter.  Inside his leather gloves his hands were like ice and his topcoat just wasn't doing the job tonight.  It also seemed a lot colder inside the phone booth than it did outside.  At first it had been good to get out of the biting cold wind that was coming off the river, now it was just as bad.

 

"7:12, Napoleon," came the soft voice of his partner in his ear.  "Are you as cold as I am?"

 

"I thought you had anti-freeze in your veins.  I didn't know you could get cold," Napoleon murmured softly, testing the capabilities of the tie clip microphone he wore.

 

"No, actually I'm not.  I was trying to cheer you up."

 

A loud ring burst from the phone and Napoleon nearly jumped out of his skin.  Before it had a second chance to ring, he snatched up the receiver and held it to his numb ear.  "Solo here."

 

"I'm sorry to have to call you out on such a bitter night, Mr. Solo."  Broderick's voice was now welcomingly familiar.  "Do you have the money?"

 

"In small unmarked bills, I hope that will suffice."

 

"It will for the moment.  Now I need you to deposit it for me.  Are you familiar with Grand Central Station?"

 

"As much as most New Yorkers, I suppose."

 

"Very good, Mr. Solo.  Go there.  At the far end of the terminal, there is a row of lockers..."

 

"And you want me to put it in one of the lockers?"

 

"You're interrupting again, Mr. Solo."

 

As much as it galled him, Napoleon murmured, "I'm sorry."

 

"Accepted.  As I was saying, there is a row of lockers and beside it there is a phone.  I will call at 7:30, Mr. Solo, and tell you which locker the money needs to go in."

 

"But this is Saturday night and that's clear across town.  I can't make it there in fifteen minutes."

 

"Perhaps one of your rivals can.  You're wasting time, Mr. Solo...Mr. Solo?"

 

The receiver dangling on its cord remained silent as it swayed back and forth in the empty phone booth.  Napoleon was running for his sedan with all the speed his legs could give him.  He'd yanked the door open when a motorcycle pulled up beside him.

 

"Napoleon," Illya yelled over the roar of the motor.  "Get on!"

 

Any argument that Napoleon might have come up with went out the door as another precious moment ticked by.  He got a firm grip on the satchel with one hand and wrapped the other around his partner's slender waist.  "Grand Central Station, Jeeves, and step on it!"

 

                                                                                ****

 

Napoleon Solo burst into Grand Central Station with less than a minute to spare thanks to some pretty incredible driving on Illya's part.  Napoleon had to admit there was a certain thrill to driving on sidewalks and between traffic-stalled vehicles.  Napoleon could see why Illya often preferred a motorcycle to a car.  However, it wasn't exactly the right mode of transportation for a night like this.  If Napoleon was cold before, now he felt one step away from serious frostbite and windburn.

 

However, his physical discomfort was unimportant at the moment as he dashed across the marble floor of the lobby towards the described bank of lockers.  Just as he rounded the corner, he heard the phone ring and barely managed to snatch it out of the hand of a dark-haired, leather-clad Puerto Rican.

 

"Hello?" Napoleon shouted into the receiver and he was greeted by a laugh.

 

"You see, you can do anything if you put your mind to it, Mr. Solo.  Now, Mr. Solo, a word problem for you."

 

"A what?" Napoleon asked, all too aware that the leather-clad man was glaring at him and pacing a short path back and forth.  "Can't you just tell me?"

 

"Where's your sense of adventure, Mr. Solo?  Besides, what real choice do you have?  Now listen.  The prow of a ship is ten feet long.  The body is as long as the nose and the stern put together.  The stern is as long as the prow and half the body.  What's the complete length of the ship?"

 

"The stern was how long?" Napoleon asked just as he was grabbed from behind and slammed into a wall.  He came up, his face a mask of controlled fury.

               

"I've had enough of your phone call, man," shouted the Puerto Rican.  A knife appeared in his hand and Napoleon pulled off his jacket to wrap about an arm.  "Let's see if you can fight as good as you talk."

 

He made a jab and Napoleon moved smoothly out of his way.  He had no real desire to hurt the younger man, but he desperately needed him to go away.

 

Suddenly a roar shook the lobby of Grand Central Station as a motorcycle pulled in through a pair of automatic doors.  The rider looked around for a moment, then started across the lobby, narrowly missing people who stood staring dumbfounded by the sight of a motorcycle skidding across the smooth floor.

 

Both men were momentarily distracted by the sound  and sight. Napoleon, recovering first, pushed the man aside and leaped out of the way as the motorcycle roared up.  Its front wheel stopping between the Puerto Rican's splayed legs, a fraction of an inch from a young man's most prized possession.

 

The helmet came off and Napoleon smiled at his partner.  "Talk about the cavalry."

 

"Think about it," Illya advised .

 

The young man nodded furiously, all too aware of his precarious position.  "I am, man, I am."

 

"Not you.  Napoleon, think about the problem."

 

For a moment, Napoleon had forgotten all about the phone, the money, everything.  Thankfully, the satchel was where he left it and he grabbed up the dangling phone.

 

"What is going on over there, Mr. Solo?" Broderick's voice asked, obviously piqued with curiosity.

 

"We had a little to-do here.  Could you repeat that word problem again?"

 

With a sigh of surrender, Illya said, "Eighty, Napoleon, the answer is eighty."

 

"Eighty?" Napoleon repeated dubiously, glancing over at his partner.    

 

"Very good, Mr. Solo," Broderick answered.  "That's correct.  Put the money in Locker 80.  I shall wait."

 

Napoleon walked over to the lockers, scanning them until he found No. 80, beaten and rusting, but still functional.  He dug a quarter out of his pocket and exchanged the coin for the key to the cubicle.  Tucking the satchel inside, he locked it back up, pocketed the key and gave the door one more tug.  It held firmly, and satisfied, Napoleon returned to the phone.

 

"It's done," he reported and at the following silence, he tried, "Hello?"

 

"I am here, Mr. Solo.  Are you familiar with Pierre's Grill?"

 

"The one in Manhattan or the one in London?"

 

"Manhattan, Mr. Solo.  I shall be awaiting your arrival.  At that time, I will exchange the locker key for your merchandise."

 

"How will I know you?"

 

"I will know you, Mr. Solo."

 

"Now where?"  Illya asked as Napoleon hung up the phone.

 

"Pierre's Grill. I'm to meet him there."

 

"Great."  Illya paused, looking around.  Several police officers seemed to have taken quite an interest in Illya, and the Russian pulled his helmet back on.  "Need a ride to your car?"

 

Napoleon shook his head, "I'll take a taxi, thanks."

 

"Great, I'll meet you there."  With that, the Russian backed the bike up and spun it around, heading for the nearest exit.  The Puerto Rican, still sprawled upon the floor, didn't wait to press his luck with Napoleon.  He quickly scrambled away in the opposite direction.  Napoleon looked after one, then the other, before shrugging his shoulders and reaching for the phone again.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Napoleon Solo pulled open the door to Pierre's Grill and permitted his partner to precede him.  Immediately, they were approached by the maitre'd, who eyed Illya's less-than-formal attire warily.  For his part, Illya seemed unconcerned and juggled his helmet from one hand to the other as he removed his leather gloves.

 

"Do you have reservations...sir?"  The man's question was icy.

 

"Quite a few, actually," Illya said, regarding his surroundings dubiously.  "But my friend assures me that the food is palatable here."

 

Napoleon pushed forward, jostling his partner into silence. "Excuse him, please.  He's new in town.  I believe we're expected by a Mr. Broderick."

 

"Of course, sir."  The man was all attention with Napoleon.  “He did phone to say that he would be detained for a few minutes and to show you to his table.  This way, please."

 

The two UNCLE agents were halfway through their cocktails when a commotion at the waiter's podium drew their attention.  A man staggered in, disheveled, obviously distressed.

 

"Why do I have a feeling we just had dinner snatched from beneath our noses?" Illya muttered, rising as the man pushed his way past the waiters and toward them.

 

"THRUSHes at twelve o'clock," Napoleon murmured as two business‑suited men entered.  Neither seemed particularly disturbed that they were ignored by the maitre'd.  "Let's go see if they want to talk."

 

The first man saw them and struggled free from the restraining hands of the waiters to stumble into Napoleon's arms.

 

"Mr. Solo..." he managed and then stiffened, a look of pain and confusion contorting his face.  To the untrained ear, the barely audible 'pop' could have been a dozen different things, but neither UNCLE agent had trouble recognizing the sound of a silenced gun.

 

"I'll stay with him."  Napoleon knelt, carefully lowering Broderick to the floor as Illya sprinted for the doorway.  Both THRUSH saw him coming and one even got a wild shot off at him before bolting out with Illya in pursuit.

 

"Buck up, old man," he urged as he loosened Broderick's collar.  Napoleon hadn't been prepared for the man's youthfulness.  He couldn't have been much older than the Puerto Rican from earlier in the evening. 

 

The man didn't respond and Napoleon probed his neck for a pulse; there was none.

 

"I've called for an ambulance,” the maitre’d said, kneeling to join the American.

 

"Too late," Napoleon said, using his napkin to cover the man's face.  "He's dead."  Somewhere a woman screamed and fainted, the noise distracting attention from the fallen man.  That was fine with Napoleon.  He regarded the man for a moment longer then stood and removed his I.D. from an inner pocket.  "I'm Napoleon Solo, from the U.N.C.L.E. I'm going to have to ask you all to remain here until we have a chance to talk to you."

 

 

Napoleon glanced over as Illya rejoined him, winded and empty‑handed.

 

"I lost them.  However, I did find both Herrera and Mazzeli.  They are taking a little nap thanks to some kind of knockout drug.  How is Broderick?"

 

"Was, past tense," Napoleon sighed and stood back as ambulance attendants joined the group and began to examine the body.

 

"Anything in his pockets?"

 

"Don't know yet.  I didn't exactly have an opportunity to go through them while he was dying in my arms.  Do you remember the address of his hotel?  I'd like to pay his room a visit."

 

"Can we stop on the way?  This sort of thing always gives me an appetite and I think we've out-stayed our welcome here."

 

"Illya, everything gives you an appetite.  Doesn't anything kill it?"

 

"Food."

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Nonchalantly, two men moved through the hotel lobby. They were so casual that no one paid them much attention at all, even when one of them approached the front desk.  The aged clerk  either did not hear him or chose to ignore him.  In either event, he continued to concentrate on the paperback book he held with arthritic fingers.

 

Napoleon stood there for a moment, staring expectantly at the clerk's back.  When it became apparent that nothing was going to happen, he cleared his throat, politely, but with a note of annoyance in it.  When the clerk turned, Napoleon smiled at him.

 

"Good evening, sir, I'd like the room number for Miss Karen Hart."

 

"One moment, please."  The desk clerk scanned down the yellow-stained pages of the register. "I'm sorry, but we don't seem to have anyone by that name staying with us."

 

"Really?  I could have sworn it was this one.  You don't have another hotel in your chain, do you?"

 

The clerk gave Napoleon a 'give-me-a-break’ look.  "Sir, do we look like we're a chain?   There's no one here by that name.  Perhaps your lady friend was mistaken.  Or perhaps you were."

 

Napoleon turned his head sideways to scan the list before it was snatched away. "Well, I guess you would know.  My apologies."

 

"Quite all right. Good evening."  The clerk muttered as he turned back to his book.  Napoleon joined Illya by the elevators.

 

"Room 54," Napoleon said, glancing back at the front desk to make sure they were unobserved.

 

"Miss Hart?"  Illya muttered as they boarded the ancient elevator.  "You couldn't come up with something more original?"

 

"Best I could do on short notice," Napoleon said as he nonchalantly patted his dark hair to make sure it was in place.  He refused to let the Russian or even this creaking little elevator put him off.

 

The elevator opened onto a dingy hallway, its sole illumination a single low watt light bulb.  It took a few moments to find Room 54 in the dimness.  With little flair, Illya jimmied the door and slipped inside, Napoleon close behind him.  With similar intent, they quickly and efficiently moved through the room, hands and eyes examining every crack and crevice.  Illya overturned the mattress, hands skillfully searching for a telltale lump.  Napoleon started his search in the bathroom, lifting the toilet tank lid, feeling around the base of the rusty sink bottom, and even pulling the head off the shower.

 

They checked every piece of paper for a message or imprint of one.  Illya flipped through the Gideon bible and sighed with disgust.

 

"Absolutely nothing."

 

"Maybe THRUSH got here before us."

 

"Doubtful.  Neat is not their fashion.  If they'd been here, the place would look like a hurricane had gone through.  You can't even tell we've been here."

At the sound of shattering glass, both men dropped to the floor.  A canister flew in and immediately began to release a heavy stream of smoke.

 

An effort to get even the short distance to the door proved impossible and Napoleon watched through bleary eyes as his partner, gasping and coughing, collapsed down to the threadbare rug.  A moment later, Napoleon felt himself slump down to the floor, his nostrils assailed by the smoke and dust.  Dark shapes appeared through the smoke and Napoleon didn't need a closer look to know that THRUSH had arrived.

 

                                                                                ****

 

"First, he's killed under your very noses, then you blunder a search of his room."  Waverly was not pleased.  "Not an exceptional evening's work, gentlemen."

 

Napoleon and Illya both regarded the table blotters in front of them with bloodshot eyes.  It was obvious, even to the casual observer that neither man was terribly happy with the outcome of the night’s events nor both took the reprimand quietly.

 

A soft chime interrupted Waverly and he leaned over to snap up a toggle.

 

"Yes?"  His tone was gruffer than usual.

 

"Records, sir.  We have the additional information that Mr. Kuryakin requested on Adolph Broderick.

 

"Go ahead, Miss...Tygers," Waverly said, looking over at the younger agent.

 

"Adolph Broderick was born in Salmo, Wisconsin and attended local schools until his graduation.  His ingenuity with lasers won him a full scholarship to Princeton.  That lasted until the next year when, in a fit of prankishness, he put a St. Bernard in bed with the dean's wife, took pictures and posted them around the campus.  He was dismissed and returned to his family home in Salmo.  There, he produced several inventions, which sold and provided him with enough royalties to continue tinkering while living on a healthy income.  However, according to neighbors, he was working on something really big, which he was keeping under lock and key.

 

"His next door neighbor said that he'd often wake up to this high-pitched whistle and Broderick's house would be glowing, sometimes even shuddering.  When he complained, he was told to mind his own business or something very unpleasant might happen to him.  Since Broderick was a bit eccentric, the neighbor backed off."

 

"Strange," Illya ventured and the voice on the intercom answered back.

 

"Strange enough to have the cops pay the place a weekly visit, but they could never find anything.  Rumor has it that Broderick dug out a tunnel through the basement and would hide his invention there until they left. In May, he appeared at a bar, claiming he'd done it.  Exactly what he was talking about, no one knows, but he did say he'd devised something that was going to make him a multi‑millionaire."

 

"That's what I like, greed winning out over genius," Napoleon said aside to Illya.

 

"Of course.  Who wants to be a starving genius?  Money is the sincerest form of flattery," Illya answered back.

 

Waverly glared over at the Russian and the bloodshot blue eyes began another study of the tabletop.

 

"Continue, Miss Tygers."

 

"There's not much else, Sir, except that he was currently involved in negotiations with a Calgary oil company.  Apparently, he was hoping to play Mr. Solo off against them for the most profit."

 

"Then I think we should start there.  Mr. Solo, since he seemed to consider you a possible avenue of monetary advancement, why don't you pay that oil company a visit and find out what they know about this device," Waverly said, beginning to search his pockets for his pipe.  "Mr. Kuryakin, I want you to go to Salmo and see what you can uncover there.  Interview the neighbors and his family and search the house. Check in at the Duluth office.  Mr. Solo, you'll be with the Seattle office.  After the reports I’ve read this evening, I suspect the time apart will do you both good.  Good evening, gentlemen."

 

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

Illya Kuryakin shook his watch and frowned.  What good was an anti-bugging, tracking, explosive device that couldn't keep proper time?  He stopped on the street corner, looking around until he located a small shop whose front window proclaimed 'Watches repaired while U wait'.

 

Shifting his briefcase to the other hand, he carefully crossed the slushy street.  Even though it was only the middle of October, Wisconsin was already feeling a hint of the winter to come.  He brushed a few snowflakes off his shoulders and entered the shop.

 

"Can I help you, sir?"  A small gentleman appeared from out of nowhere, his thinning hair brushed back and his glasses pushed up over his head. In his eagerness, a small display of watchbands was nearly upset and Illya instinctively grabbed for it.

 

Setting it back upright, Illya said, "I seem to have a malfunctioning watch.  I think it may be the weather."

 

"A tricky repair at this time of year."

 

"Explosive, in this case."  Illya saw recognition flash briefly in the man's eyes when he realized that Illya wasn't a paying customer, but an UNCLE agent.

 

"Thank you, sir.  Right around that display, if you please, and good luck to you."  Illya walked around the edge of the front counter and through a curtained doorway, stepping into a small cubicle nearly identical to the one in Del Floria's tailor shop.

 

Even though the business fronts varied from city to city, all the internal UNCLE offices sported the same bare, efficient walls and cold tile floors.  This could have been New York or Minsk for all he knew.

 

The woman at the receptionist desk glanced up and offered a cautious smile.  "May I help you?"

 

"Kuryakin, from New York," Illya said, offering an ID card.  She took it and slipped beneath it into a scanner .  The woman's face was bathed in a soft blue light for a moment, then he looked up again, her smile now less guarded.

 

"Mr. Kuryakin, welcome to Duluth.  If you could wait just a moment, I'll arrange a guide."

 

"Thanks, but I can find my own way.  This isn't my first visit."  He waited until a badge was passed to him and he continued, threading his way through a series of corridors until he stood before a second desk.  He recognized the woman seated there and raised a hand in greeting.

 

"Afternoon, Mona."

 

"Illya, how good to see you again.  How is Mr. Solo?"     

 

"He sends his best.  How's the family?  Last time I saw you, you were a prime candidate for a diaper service," Illya said, using the moment to set down his briefcase and remove his gloves and outer jacket.

 

"Growing like a weed, I'm afraid.  He’s already four and has a sister, too.  Makes me feel old just to watch them.  Will you be coming by for a home-cooked meal?  Hank and I still owe you."

 

At the invitation, Illya grinned, one that was warm and unaffected.  "Mona, you know my weak spot.  If time permits, I would be honored."

 

"Wonderful," she said, nodding to a door.  "He's expecting you."

 

Illya walked to the door, allowing it to slide slowly open before entering.  He only had to bounce into it a half a dozen times before its peculiar quirk was ingrained on his memory. He stepped into a smaller replica of Waverly's office and stood quietly, waiting for some sign of acknowledgement.

 

The head rose and the bespectacled eyes of Gilbert Connors regarded him seriously for a moment before the weathered face broke into a smile.  Connors had been a Section 2 agent until the mandatory field retirement age had sidelined him.  The field experience had given him insight that some of the other administration personnel lacked and it afforded him an understanding of why agents like Napoleon and Illya sometimes acted the way they did. 

 

"Illya, so you're the poor smuck that got stuck with the short end of this assignment.  I was wondering who Mr. Waverly would saddle with it."

 

"Yes, sir. "  Illya slid into a chair across from the man and clasped his hands before him, a picture of expectation.

 

Connors shut the file he'd been studying. "It's just that crawling through a backwater Wisconsin town is not my idea of a good time and I live here.  I had thought some lower Section 2 would pull it."

 

"Yes, well, this is sort of mine and Napoleon's baby.  Besides, Mr. Waverly thinks this has the potential to get very hot very fast and he didn't want it in the hands of someone who couldn't handle it."

 

"So I've read."  Connors poured a cup a coffee and offered it to the blond who held up a hand in decline. "Melted a sand trap, huh?"

 

                "Very showy, and after the game Napoleon played that day, I'm sure he considered it just desserts.  Unfortunately, while Broderick was showing off for us, our feathered friends got wind of it as well.  When Broderick didn't cooperate, a THRUSH assassin gave him a permanent stomach ache as payment."

 

There was a soft knock at the door and Gilbert smiled.  "Good, that will be Munroe, your partner while you're here.  I thought you'd like a guide to show you around."

 

Illya glanced up expectantly, only mildly surprised when a woman walked in.  More and more women were being brought in as field agents and Illya wasn't sure how he felt about it.  On one hand, he thought women could handle the danger and physical aspects as well as a man, but he had been raised to think differently.  Just as Napoleon had had to work at overcoming his bitter dislike for Russians, Illya had to struggle with the changing roles of women.

 

"Ah, Salem, meet Illya Kuryakin.  He's out of our New York office. Illya, this is Salem Munroe."

 

Illya rose as she entered and waited until she extended her hand before grasping it in a firm, but brief handshake.

 

"Salem is a geologist as well as being particularly well versed in Wisconsin history.  Not that you'll need either, of course, but she's also a good conversationalist.  I'm sure you'll find her a wealth of information."

 

"After having worked with Napoleon for so long, the change will be a pleasure," Illya said and smiled enigmatically at her.  The woman returned the smile, just as non‑committal.

 

"I do hope that I'll be of some help to you, Mr. Kuryakin.  It's been some time since I've been assigned to any fieldwork.  I may be a bit rusty," she said, speaking for the first time.  Her voice carried a slight Canadian accent and Illya tucked that knowledge away.

 

Illya glanced over to a beaming Connors, suddenly remembering how the man loved to 'fix things up' between agents.  It was Connor's opinion that a married agent was a better one.  He felt it made them more cautious going into a field assignment and less likely to take risks. It had taken Napoleon a good two months to shake Connor's last matchmaking attempt.  Illya returned his attention to the dark‑haired woman.

 

"I'll do my best to keep both of us in one piece."

 

Conner's smile widened.  "Well, I think that will be it for now. Contact me when you reach Salmo.  And don't let the hodag get you."

 

                                                                                ****

 

Illya Kuryakin drove the sedan carefully down the darkened country road, letting his attention wander from the road to the area on either side of them.  Munroe leaned against the passenger's door, chin propped up against a hand, staring out into the blackness.  They had exhausted casual conversation a few miles out of Duluth and Illya had already found out enough about the history of Wisconsin to last him a lifetime.  At least she didn't babble and Illya appreciated that. In fact, she hardly spoke at all now, except to give an occasional direction.  Even the radio had fallen into a blast of static. Illya leaned over and switched it off.

 

"Miss Munroe, what's a hodag?" he asked softly.

 

"I'm not surprised that you don't know about it. It's something that sleeps up against trees, smells bad and races through the swamp.  It has a weakness for the family dog."  She sat back, glancing over at him with a sigh. "It is Gilbert's idea of a joke.  You know how he loves superstitions."

 

"Oh," Illya acknowledged.  "Something like a jackalope."

 

"A what?"

 

"A jackalope.  The head of a jack rabbit with antelope horns.  Napoleon pulled that one on me when we were in Nevada.  It took me nearly a month to live that one down."  He grinned at the memory and she smiled back.

 

"Be thankful Gilbert didn't start on the Windigo.  We had two agents come in from the Midwest and Gilbert thought he was being funny by mentioning it.  What he didn't know was that one of the agents was from Minnesota and a firm believer in the Windigo.  Said that he saw it just before his grandmother died.  Once Gilbert found out, he went a little too far.  He had a Section 3 dress up as one and start roaming the halls.  The agent went bonkers when he saw it.  Ended up having to carry him off for some intense therapy," Salem paused for a breath and looked back out at the dark. "It was probably just as well; the doctors said he probably wasn't far from cracking anyhow and this sort of forced it.  Still, Gilbert never really forgave himself, nor is Mr. Waverly likely to let him forget.  Ever since, Gilbert has fallen back on the hodag.  Not as funny, but a whole lot safer."

 

"Unless you're the family dog.  I'm going to have to remember this for Napoleon." 

 

"That's the second time you've mentioned him in the last five minutes.  Tell me something, is he really as bad as they say he is?"  The woman rubbed the back of her head as if trying to soothe a headache.

 

"Worse.  You're much safer with me.  At least I was raised a gentleman."  He paused for the woman's laugh and then continued.  "What sort of community are we heading for?"

 

"Think back to your native Russia.  Remember any small town there."

 

"You mean we're going to be stopped and stripped searched by a bunch of solders, told our papers aren't in order and forced to return to Moscow?"  Illya guided the car off onto the shoulder of the road and put the car into park.

 

Salem laughed and shook her head.  "Not exactly.  Is Russia really like that?"

 

"Not usually," Illya said with a smile.  "But I could not resist. So we are going into a small town attitude."

 

"That's exactly what you're heading into.  This one sits on the banks of Lake Superior.  Maybe they get ten visitors a year and most of them were probably lost in the first place.  It's miserably cold in the winter and too hot in the summer.  They are likely to be protective.  Adolph Broderick is...was probably the biggest thing they ever had."

 

"They may still have it if Broderick left the plans for his machine there.  THRUSH will reduce the town to rubble to get it."

 

"Whatever 'it' is."

 

"Agreed.  All I know is that if THRUSH gets its hands on whatever caused that sandpit to melt, the free world will not be safe."  Illya ran a hand over his eyes and blinked.

 

"You okay?"

 

"Eyes are just a little tired.  It's been a long day."  With a sigh of resignation, Illya reached for his gloves.  “I also need to step out for a moment.”

 

"What?  Oh, I get it.  I’ll watch your back…figuratively speaking that it.” 

 

The Russian braced himself for the blast of cold air and took a few steps away from the car and into the night. 

 

A few minutes later, he slipped back into the car, glad for its heat.

 

“You travel a lot?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I would think you'd be used to the jet lag by now.”

 

"You never really get used to the jet lag.  My day started about thirty six hours ago with Broderick's death and I haven't had much sleep since.  It's tough to get any shuteye on those twelve seat prop jobs."

 

She slumped back and crossed her arms.  "Have you thought about what you'll tell the law if you're caught breaking into Broderick's house?"

 

"With any luck, no one will ever know we were there."

 

It was nearly midnight when they drove into town. All Illya really wanted to do was find a hotel and hole up for the night.  However, the time was perfect for nocturnal exploration and Illya shoved the thought of sleep aside as he followed Munroe's directions to Broderick's house.  There would be time to rest after he'd done a little nosing about.

 

"Nobody seems to be home," Illya muttered as he studied the Broderick house, bleak and obviously abandoned.  Signs of neglect were everywhere, from the newspaper-strewn front porch to the over-grown lawn.  "Perhaps we should have called first." 

 

Illya was ready for Napoleon's comeback, but all he received was a confused, "Pardon?"

 

"Never mind, it was a joke," Illya said, pulling out his communicator and raising the antenna.  "Open Channel L, please."

 

"Evening, Illya," answered back Connor, his voice tinny.  "Or should I say, morning.  How does it look?"

 

"Don't you Section 1 guys ever sleep?  Are you sure THRUSH hasn't already been here?  This place is just begging to be broken into."

 

"Not according to our scouts.  No one's approached the place since Broderick's death.  Now, Illya, remember that Broderick was an inventor.  The place could have some pretty sophisticated burglar alarms."

 

"Maybe they already found what they were looking for in New York," Munroe suggested as she buttoned up her parka in preparation for her excursion out into the bitter Wisconsin night.

 

"Perhaps," Connors answered back.  "But then again, they might not have gotten there yet." Even through the distortion, the concern in his voice was obvious.  "Watch yourself and your partner."

 

 "You don't have to say that twice," Illya said, reassuringly.  "I'll report back in two hours.  Out."  Illya tucked the pen‑like device away and took a deep breath.  "Are you ready?"

 

"Does a baby go goo?"

 

He stepped out of the car's warmth and pulled the sheepskin jacket closer, the frigid wind ripping the breath from his lungs.  "Is it always this cold?" he whispered, once he found enough air. “This is like Siberia.”

 

"Sometimes it's worse," she answered back in kind, looking cautiously about her as if worried about being overheard.

 

"Correction, this is worse than Siberia."  Illya moved up the walk, ready to spring, jump or fire at a moment's notice, should the situation demand it.

 

"And I call it home," Munroe said, following, more obviously on guard than he. "Should we try the front door?"

 

"You can if you want to, but I'd advise against it."  Illya began to crunch his way through the frost-brittle grass and crusty patches of snow.  "If THRUSH has paid this place a visit already, they may have booby‑trapped the door."

 

"What makes you think that?"

 

"Remind me to show you the scars of experience."  Illya stopped before a window and reluctantly removed his bare hands from his pockets. The night air made his fingers feel like sausages, but that couldn't be helped.  What he needed to do couldn't be done with gloves on.

 

He tried to jack the window up, but it remained firmly in place.  He sighed and placed two fingers against the glass, tapping lightly, organizing his thoughts.

 

"Locked?"  Munroe flapped her arms about her and studied the immediate area for possible danger.

 

Illya had to stand on tiptoes to verify the answer. "Among other things."  He wiped the glass dry with his handkerchief and removed a suction cup from a coat pocket, working it against the glass until he was satisfied with its grip.  Then, he reached into his inner jacket pocket for a small pen.

 

With a few quick strokes, Illya traced the outline of the windowpane before shaking his hands and blowing on his stiff fingers.

 

"Glass cutter?"  Salem removed her gloves and took Illya's fingers in her warm hands.  "You come prepared."

 

"I never leave home without it."  Illya looked at Munroe, uncertain what her actions were saying, but the woman had returned to watching the night.  "You're more charitable than Napoleon.  Thank you."  He freed his hands and tapped on the glass until it was knocked loose, then he removed it carefully and set it on the ground.

 

"One question, why didn't you just break it?"

 

"It would look like we were here.  I'm trying to prevent that if at all possible.  Besides, the sound of breaking glass might alert someone.  You know how sound travels at night.  The longer we can keep THRUSH a proper distance from us, the more liberty that affords us.  You have been out of the field a long time, haven't you?"  Illya reached in and slid the lock out of position.  Using the open section as a lever, he shoved up and the window reluctantly creaked open.

 

"For years.  I kept telling Gilbert that, but you know how stubborn he is," she said, glancing uncomfortably around as Illya climbed through the window before following him in. "I think it's colder in here," she said once inside.

 

"Air's stiller, plus we're on the northern exposure.  Wouldn't get much sun, what little there is these days."  Illya looked around and pointed to a nearby door.  "Shall we start there?  That's probably the basement."

 

"Isn't that what you say just before the mad scientist grabs you and switches your brain with that of a monkey?"

 

"But in our case, the mad scientist is already dead," Illya said before skidding to a stop, coming up on his tiptoes to avoid moving another inch.  Salem, already nervous, froze in her tracks.

 

"What's wrong?"

 

"Laser beam, about an inch from the floor.  Do you see it?"

 

"I wouldn't have if you hadn't pointed it out.  What do you think it does?"

 

"I have no intention of finding out."  Illya carefully stepped over the beam, then ducked quickly to avoid a second, shoulder high beam.  "Perhaps you should stay here for a moment until I run the gamut."

 

"Good idea."  

 

Illya opened the door and took a step in before backing out again.  "I don't think we'll find much in the closet."

 

"I guess I should have memorized the blueprints to the house before leaving.  It's been so long, I've forgotten more than I ever learned."

 

"We'll muddle through.  At least you aren't as fast with a comeback as Napoleon."

 

"How do you suppose he's doing?"

 

                                                                                                ****

 

As Salem was posing that question to Illya, Napoleon Solo swirled the brandy snifter with a practiced movement and inhaled the liquor's aroma carefully before sampling.  A fire crackled as the flames caught a bit of pitch from the log.

 

"Marvelous," he said, clicking his tongue in pleasure. "A  thirty two??"

 

"Thirty‑four, actually, Mr. Solo, but I'm none the less impressed."  His host leaned back in his own armchair and raised his glass.  "To absent friends."

 

Napoleon's thoughts turned briefly to his Russian partner as he smiled and lifted the snifter.  "And present enemies."

 

   "I shall have to remember that one.  Now this detective agency you work for..."

 

"Eyes on the World," Napoleon said, as he crossed his legs and sipped again, slowly savoring the flavor of the brandy.  "Now, Mr. Brandise, may I know your company's interest in Mr. Broderick?"

 

"Yes, well, his suggestion was to use his machine along with our usual drilling equipment."

 

Napoleon frowned as he loosened his tie slightly.  He hoped wherever Illya was, he wasn't roasting like this.  "What would that accomplish?"

 

"You probably don't realize the trouble we have with sand in the oil, Mr. Solo."  Brandise's voice took on a lecturing tone and Napoleon inwardly sighed.  "Let me explain.  When we drill down, most of the debris is hauled back to the surface, but the ground here is so sandy that tons of it pours back down into the hole and the oil.  We have to separate it once we bring up the oil.  Mr. Broderick's suggestion was to run a laser down in a circular motion.  It would melt the sand into glass and we don't have to bother with a lot of costly filtering.  Clean, neat and, with Broderick's machine, relatively simple.  There had been talk of doing something like this, but we could never get a laser that had the power and range prior to this."

 

"He'd perfected it then?" Napoleon asked as he set the snifter down.

 

"Not entirely," Mr. Brandise admitted, rising to throw another log on the fire.  "We have a working model, scaled down, of course." He poked at the log until it was seated properly.  "We gave him the funds to build us a bigger, more practical model.   He went back to Michigan, or so he said, to build our machine and that was the last we heard of him.  Until you showed up on our doorstep, we thought the whole affair was a lost cause.  I had no idea so many other companies were also after him.  Now that he's dead, we're nearly back to the drawing board."

 

"At least, you still have his model to work from.  I just wish we had been in contact sooner.  When will I be able to see this device?"

 

"Very soon, Mr. Solo.  First though, finish your brandy and tell me, do you think this whole thing might have been avoided with a proper contract?"

 

"Contracts mean little to men like Broderick.  As I mentioned earlier, he was in New York approaching my client when he was murdered.  At this point, we are still not certain who did the killing.  He was dealing with a pretty shady group of people who were not beyond murder as a means of permanently sealing a deal."

 

"How horrible.  That's why I love living here in Calgary."  Brandise straightened up and brushed imagined soot from his hands before gesturing around the small office in which they sat.  "Do you know we had less violent crime here last year than anywhere within Canada?  We're pretty proud of that."

 

"It certainly is God's country up here," Napoleon agreed as he finished the brandy.

 

A brilliant flash of orange lit the windows of the office and both men sprang to their feet.  With Brandise leading the way, they raced out into the night.

 

"Oh my god, one of the rigs is on fire," Brandise moaned, trying to look through the flames that shot up into the sky.

 

"No, it's not a rig; it's a small warehouse," Napoleon yelled over the sound of sirens.  Men were pouring from nearby buildings just as they had done.  Some rushed up to the flaming structure, fire extinguishers at ready.  However, the incendiary bomb had been too expertly set.  It didn't take Napoleon more than one guess to know who did it.  THRUSH had Broderick's device and they were now eliminating the competition.

 

"Broderick's model was in there," Brandise mumbled, heavily shocked by the loss.  "We spent a million on this fiasco.  Do you know how much a million dollars is, Mr. Solo?"

 

"More than I have in the bank," Napoleon answered, being careful to keep his tone sympathetic.  "I think the new owners want to make sure Broderick's machine dies with him."

 

"I don't think we're going to be of much help to you, Mr. Solo."

 

To the contrary, they already had been, Napoleon thought as he led the shivering man back into the office.  He knew more now than before, although it wasn't information that warmed his heart.

 

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

Salem Munroe pushed a strand of hair out of her face and sniffed curiously.  They had eventually found the basement after two more wrong turns.  Illya had carefully descended the poorly maintained stairs into a cramped, musty room crammed with electronic parts, various chemicals and a variety of other garbage that Illya couldn't immediately identify.  Salem had been on edge ever since the overhead light had triggered a small, but spectacular explosion.  Now, she continued to sniff the air, a frown wrinkling her face.

 

"Do you smell something?" she finally asked the stooped Russian.

 

Illya looked up, grateful for the reprieve he wouldn't give himself.  He rubbed his stiff neck with a gloved hand and took a deep breath. "I smell a lot of things, sulfur, mold and the like.  Any one that that you are  particular interested in?"

 

"Yeah, smoke," she said, climbing three stairs up towards the house and inhaled again. "Illya, I think we've got a problem.  There's smoke seeping in under the door."

 

Illya joined her and nodded.  "Definitely a problem. Let's see what we have for an escape route."  He mounted the stairs two at a time and reached for the doorknob. 

 

"You're never supposed to open a door when fire is suspected," Munroe said, dropping closer to the stairs to get beneath the smoke.  "You should check to see if it's hot first."

 

From his vantage point, Illya could hear the fire crackling and snapping.  "In our case, I think it would be wise not to open it at all, especially with all the chemicals down here.  The heat will get to them soon enough." 

 

"I thought I was just getting used to the cold down here," Salem muttered as she retraced her step back down the stairs and looked around.  "Now what?"

 

"We go out the way we came in."  Illya climbed up onto a workbench and brushed aside a spider web.  He pushed the window outward, but a sharp retort of a rifle sent him to his knees a split second before a bullet shattered the pane above him.

 

"You okay?" Salem asked as Illya shook shards loose from his hair and looked back out the window, crouching.

 

"Thanks to the winter gear, I am.  Apparently our entrance wasn't as unnoticed as I had hoped."  Illya glanced out the window, his gun drawn.  "No other doors and the only window is guarded."  He swung the flashlight beam around the smoke-filled room in a wide arc.  "We could try to shoot our way out, but they have us at a distinct disadvantage.  They know where we are, but we don't know where they are.  Methinks we are trapped."

 

"Look at that."  Munroe grabbed his sleeve and pointed to a swirling mass of smoke.  "There's a wind blowing the smoke around over there, but there's no breeze coming in from the broken window.  Didn't the report say something about Broderick having a secret exit or something?"

 

"It said that it was suspected, but that no one could ever find it."

 

"They didn't have a smoky room and gunfire as an incentive."

 

Illya holstered his gun and used a hammer to tap on the surrounding walls.  Ten knocks later a hollow thud rewarded him.  Carefully, but quickly, he searched the immediate area, getting a general idea of the size and shape of the hole.  He pulled a wad of plastic explosive from the jacket pocket and pressed into what he guessed to be the center of the area.

 

"Hurry, Illya," Salem said, coughing and waving a hand in front of her face.

 

The Russian moved smoothly, pulling off his belt and unwinding a length of wire secreted within the leather.  He planted one end securely in the explosive and motioned to Salem.  "We'll have to be ready to move fast when it goes.  In fact, it might trigger a second explosion in here."  He pushed her behind a workbench and then squatted in front of her.  "We may not get out at all."

 

"Considering what our chances of survival are if we remain here, I say, go for it.  You'll never see anyone move faster than me."

 

"Spoken like a true UNCLE agent," Illya said as he removed his wristwatch.  He quickly popped the back off and connected the wire.  Coughing, he turned his head and pushing the winding button in.  A bright flash preceded the explosion and Illya waved his hand in a futile effort to clear the dust from the hole.  "Normally, I'd say 'Ladies first'."

 

"Don't stand on ceremony.  I'm right behind you."  She gave him a push upward.

 

After several minutes of crawling, the ceiling of the passage rose enough to permit them to stand almost upright.  A brutally cold wind pushed past them, rushing to help fan the fire as well as keeping the smoke away from them.

 

"Brr, some of that heat would feel good now."  Munroe fastened the snaps on her jacket.  She hunched her shoulders and slapped her arms about her.

 

"We'd better keep moving or we'll end up popsicles."  The beam of Illya's flashlight began to wane and he shook the instrument, which only succeeded in extinguishing the light entirely.  "Terrific, when my luck is bad, it's all bad." Illya bumped his head against a low hanging rock and swore softly.  "Case in point."

 

"You okay?" Salem's voice came from behind him.

 

"Yes, but now I dropped the flashlight."

 

"I don't know about you, Illya," Salem muttered.  "Where did it go?"

 

"Somewhere off to the right, I think," Illya said.  He fell to his hands and knees, crawling around the immediate area for the elusive device.  Patting the rough rock with his hands, he abruptly hit air with the other one.  Curious, he tried again.  "Hey, Munroe, check this out."

 

Suddenly, the clouds parted and a heavy late autumn moon flooded the tunnel with eerie grey light.  Directly in front of him, the cave stopped, its lip falling to meet Great Lake Superior far below.

 

"Jesus," Munroe moaned when she saw it.  "Were you saying your luck was good or bad?  If you hadn't dropped the flashlight then, we would have gone right over the edge."

 

"That was close," Illya said, locating and retrieving the flashlight.

 

"Too close."  Munroe edged back, leaning against the cave wall for support.  "Another few feet and we'd be pushing up daisies.  Of course, this puts us in a really ugly spot.  You think those creeps have figured out that we've escaped?"

 

"They may be the bad guys, but they're not stupid.  We do have the fire to protect us for a little while.  Not even THRUSH can walk through flames and smoke without harm.  I'd say we have a half an hour, maybe less, depending on how fast that house burns."

 

"So we sit here and freeze to death, go back and get shot to death by THRUSH or jump off the ledge to our death.  Hmm, I hate it when there's so many appealing choices to select from."

 

"Play it right and you won't have to even think about it."  A voice from deep in the tunnel cut above the wind and both UNCLE agents turned. The moon chose to go back under cover and they never saw the speaker or the blackjack he carried.

 

                                                                                ****

Pulling his trench coat's collar up against the night air, Napoleon edged closer to the smoldering remains of the building and toed a piece of still-burning wood.  It would be several hours before the ashes would be cool enough to poke through.  Except for a few pieces that were still smoking, nothing was left.  It was highly unlikely that anything remained of Broderick's machine, providing, of course, that it hadn't been moved prior to the fire.

 

"Tell me, Mr. Brandise, did anyone else know about this device and what you were planning to use it for?"

 

"Just me and my partner.  We try to keep things under tight control around here ‑ until we've got a patent on it at least.  Usually, we don't have an inventor blabbing all over the country," Brandise said, laughing, but it had a tingle of sadness intermingled with it.  "Corporate spies don't make our job any easier."

 

Napoleon nodded his head.  "I fully understand, Mr. Brandise. Could I meet and talk with your partner?  I'd also like to interview anyone that might have been on the premises this evening.  You never can tell who might have seen what."

 

"Come on back to the office.  I've got Roy's number in my desk.  You might have some trouble reaching him though."

 

"Trouble?  Why do you say that?"

 

"Roy's our...independent scout."

 

"And why would that pose a problem?"

 

"Right now, he's in the Sahara Desert."

 

                                                                                                ****

 

"Yes, Sir, the Sahara Desert."  Napoleon struggled to untie his knotted shoelace with one hand and hold onto the communicator with the other.  "The other men are locals and I'll talk with them tomorrow.  THRUSH could be working through this company, but I don't think they would lay such a blatantly obvious trail for me.  They know we're on to them.  It would be much simpler to merely destroy the machine and any leads it might offer."  He got the lace untied and tossed the shoe aside.  That accomplished, he dropped back against the propped up pillows on his twin bed.

 

"And what about this desert chap?"

 

"I've got a flight out of here tomorrow afternoon, sir.  If he's connected with THRUSH, it shouldn't take me long to find out," Napoleon said, looking about the rustic interior of his room for the thermostat.  He would be glad to get out of the cold.  "What do you hear from Illya?"

 

"Nothing, and I fear harm may have befallen him.  The house that he and Agent Munroe were investigating was mysteriously destroyed in a fire last night.  There were no bodies in the wreckage, which is good news.  However Mr. Kuryakin is five hours past his routine check-in time."

 

Despite the worry that immediately started to gnaw at his stomach, Napoleon kept his tone light as he sat up sharply.  "Well, I'm sure whatever he's gotten into, he's got the matter well in hand."

 

"I only hope that he does, Mr. Solo," responded Waverly's distorted voice.  "For both your sakes."

 

                                                                ****

Illya Kuryakin opened his eyes to stifling darkness.  It surrounded him from all directions, crowding down upon him, wringing feelings of claustrophobia from him.  He knew now how a blind person must feel the first time they found themselves without sight.  Whatever had hit him made his head feel like it was full of pudding.  What didn't make sense was why his mouth was so dry and furry feeling.  He would have spit if he had the strength, but for now was content to lay quietly...not that he had much choice.  Something was crushing him to the bottom of whatever the THRUSH had him stuffed in.  And there was a strong smell of cedar to contend with.

 

After a moment he became aware of a droning, like that of a plane engine.  Apparently, whoever their captor was, he was not content leaving them on the floor of the cave.  They were headed someplace, although it was anyone's guess where.

 

He attempted to move his arms, rubbing his fingers against something smooth and soft, like satin.  His range of motion was just a few inches to either side.  This eliminated being able to bring his hand up to massage his head.  A narrow box lined with satin and reeking of cedar?  All this was leading him to a conclusion he really didn't care to entertain.

 

      Then he abruptly realized why he felt crushed; the full weight of an unconscious Munroe rested upon of him.   She was working her way to consciousness to Illya's great discomfort. Her elbows were like rods digging into his chest and he only prayed she wouldn't jerk her knee when she woke up completely.  

 

"Salem, listen to me," he said, turning his head to avoid getting a mouthful of hair.  "Don't move...please."

 

"Huh?  Illya," came the groggy question along with another shift and Illya stifled a moan as a knee dug into his groin.  "Where are you?"        

 

The Russian heard a thump as she apparently tried to lift her head.  "Right below you, literally.  Try not to move anymore than you have to, especially your left knee.  How much do you weigh anyhow?" 

 

"Guess last month would have been a good time for a diet.  What happened?  My head feels like the top's about to come off and that buzz saw doesn't help," Salem spoke softly, apparently convinced that noise had something to do with her headache.  "And that vibrating..."

 

"I do believe we are in the protective custody of our fine feathered friends.  We are currently in the cargo hold of some plane, although I wouldn't even hazard a guess as to where we're headed."

 

"What do they have us in?  It smells like my grandmother's cedar chest and the sides are soft."  Salem's voice was close to his ear now.

 

"I have a bad feeling it's a coffin, unless they're lining crates with satin these days."

 

"I can't say much for their travel arrangements.  Next time, I suggest we try another agency."   She dropped her head to his shoulder and shook it slowly.  "I should have never listened to Gilbert."

 

A loud thump on the outside of the box made her jump and Illya grunted involuntarily as her elbows dug into his diaphragm.

 

"Hello in there, my UNCLE guests.  Are we awake?" asked the voice.  It sounded similar to the one Illya had heard in the cave.  It would be a good time to exercise a little caution.

 

"Only in a vague sense," Illya answered neutrally, wishing for just a second's use of his gun or the smallest amount of plastic explosive.  However, he knew he'd been searched and the more obvious of his weapons removed.

 

"Good, I was afraid Mr. Mush‑for‑Brains might have hit you too hard, Mr. Kuryakin. You know how these strong arms are ‑ all muscles, no cognitive thought.  Are we comfy cozy?"

 

"Now that you mention it, no," Salem protested strongly, attempting to prop herself up on Illya's chest. "It's stuffy in here and my mattress keeps shifting and grunting.  I may be doing him bodily harm or he may be contemplating said bodily harm to me. Couldn't you dig up two coffins or has there been a run on the market?"

               

"Salem," Illya cautioned, "you're babbling."

 

"Sorry, I do that when I'm scared.  I was a riot in my explosives class," she murmured to Illya.

 

"I could shoot a few holes in the box," offered the voice.  Illya could tell by the tone that it would be his pleasure.

 

"No, really, that's okay," Illya said quickly, lest the man mistake silence for assent.  "What would be great would be for you to lift the lid of this thing and give us some fresh air.  We'd be on our best behavior."

 

"Sorry, but I can't do that.  They want you contained, Mr. Kuryakin, until they've had a chance to discuss your present mission with you.  Your reputation precedes you "

 

"Substitute torture for discuss and you'd be hitting closer to home," Munroe said.  "I've heard of these so-called discussions.  Our agents usually wind up dead."  She shifted to the left and Illya moved to the right.

 

"Then that should indicate a lack of constitution on the part of your agents," the voice answered back, farther away than before. "Tell me, do either of you have an allergy to sand?"

 

"Sand?"  Munroe asked, still struggling to the left. "No, I'm fine with sand.  How about you, Illya?"

 

"It's one of my favorite things, right along with scorpions, chiggers and sand fleas,” Illya said just as Salem slid off him with a muted grunt.  "Why do you ask?"

 

"No reason, really, just making polite conversation. I must leave the two you to your own devices.  I'm sorry there's not more maneuvering room in there, but I'm sure you'll come up with something, Mr. Kuryakin."  The THRUSH's laugh was lost to the hum of the plane engines as he apparently left them.     

               

"Well," Munroe muttered softly, her body still pressed up against Illya's. "This isn't much better, but at least I'm not crushing you anymore."  Her voice was close to his ear.  "I suppose we should be glad we didn't get Toulouse‑Lautrec's casket."

 

Illya could feel her breath on his face and he smiled, even though he was certain she couldn't see him.  She obviously was unaware of what her constant shifting was doing to Illya's self control.  It was ridiculous, but the whole situation reminded Illya of a night on the Steppes, a girl named Nikita and a sleeping bag.

 

"My arm is cramping," Salem complained, struggling to bring her arm up.  In doing so, her right hand brushed over his trousers, close to his fly and Illya bit his lip to keep silent, concentrating on anything except what his body wanted.  Salem got her arm up and around and continued, "And it's hot in here."

 

"Hotter than you know," Illya mumbled back.

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

Napoleon Solo swayed back and forth on the back of the camel, doing his best to look debonair despite the heat, the disguise he was wearing and his current manner of transport.  "Of all the gin joints in the world, why did it have to be the Sahara?"  Napoleon posed the question to the Arab who was accompanying him.

 

 The Arabian UNCLE agent grinned over at him.  "I thought it was, 'Of all the gin joints in the world, why did she have to pick mine?' From your tone, I'd venture you're less than in love with my desert, Napoleon."

 

"Actually, two nights ago, I would have killed for some of this warmth.  At that point I was freezing my dignity off in the Canadian night.  It's nothing personal, Asad, but it wouldn't be my ideal vacation spot.  I prefer something with fewer palm trees and a lot more bikinis.  Your women have a bad habit of covering their best assets."  He paused at the man's open laugh.  "And why camels?  Why not jeeps?  It would certainly be faster."

 

"Because we are Semites, you and I, and Semites would not stoop to riding in jeeps and permit his ship of the desert to stand by idly.  Besides, this is all they had left in the used car lot.  Big sale last weekend."

 

"And I imagine that this camel was only driven on Sundays by a little old lady from Pasadena."

 

"Casablanca, actually," Asad said and then pulled back on his camel's reins.  With a throat-gurgling bleat of protest, the animal stopped.  It took Napoleon a mere moment to follow suit.  He might not be good at riding them, but he knew how to stop camels very well.  It was getting them to move that he had a problem with.

 

"We're almost to the camp," Asad said, forcing his camel down to its knees.  He hopped off, then grabbed Napoleon's animal and made it kneel. "We go on foot from here."

 

"Won't that make us look suspicious?"  Napoleon slid down from his mount, adjusting his white 'iqal' so that it covered as much of his face as possible.

 

"No, that was one reason for your disguise.  I've been wandering in and out of the camp for days, so they won't pay any mind to me.  Hopefully, they will remain as unconcerned about you."  They began to walk and after a moment, Asad resumed, "It is better to keep one's mouth shut and be thought a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.  We are, in effect, keeping our mouths shut."

 

"Is that ancient Arabian philosophy?" Napoleon wanted to know as he attempted to walk gracefully upon the shifting sands.

 

"No, I got that in a fortune cookie once, but it seemed sound advice to me.  We must be very careful.  THRUSH is nervous these days."

 

 They climbed up a sand dune and looked over the edge to the camp below. "There you go," Asad said.  "The main tent is the red-striped one off to the left.  As far as we can make out, the whole thing's being run by a female THRUSH - very nasty lady.  And right by her tent is a suspicious piece of machinery."

 

 "Suspicious?"  Napoleon dug binoculars out of his robe. "Will you look at that."  He handed them over to Asad.  "It has 'Brandise Oil Drilling' stenciled onto its side.  I think we can safely connect this with the Calgary incident.  It still doesn't mean that a Brandise's agent is involved."

 

"Could you describe the man?"

 

"Ah, about six feet, dark hair, glasses.  Any particular reason that you ask?"

 

Wordless, Asad handed the binoculars back and pointed.  Napoleon followed the direction and then made a face.  It was obvious that the man who was staked out in the full sun had been dead for several hours.

 

"Any reason why you didn't try to rescue him?" Napoleon asked quietly.  The death of a man, even the enemy, saddened him.  He'd killed more men than he could recall, some in the name of justice, some by accident.  Each time he felt remorse and wondered when it would come to an end.  It was a feeling that had started when he was in Korea and he suspected it would continue for as long as he did. 

 

Asad shrugged his shoulders as if the idea hadn't even occurred to him.  "It would have called attention to me, which I really couldn't afford.  I also did not know the man would be of any importance.  THRUSH's idea of discipline can be harsh.  At least they are not totally without feelings, however."

 

"What do you mean?"  Napoleon was all attention.

 

"Two men are bringing in a coffin."

 

"At least it's not Illya's," Napoleon mumbled as he accepted the binoculars back from the Arab and focused them upon the coffin. Beneath the burnoose, he was beginning to sweat and itch.

 

"The blond Russian, he's your partner, yes?"

 

Napoleon nodded wearily and shifted his position.  "Yes, he disappeared under attack in Wisconsin.  We haven't heard from him or his assigned partner since."  What Napoleon didn't say were the nightmares that had plagued his sleep on the way over.  He and Illya had gotten off to a shaky start, but now Napoleon cared for the man deeply, more than he thought he could.  It wasn't like this was the first time Illya had been abducted, nor was it likely to be the last, but it was the first time Napoleon had felt such a foreboding.  His hand snaked through his robe and pulled out his communicator.  "Open Channel D.  Overseas relay."

 

"Go ahead, Mr. Solo," Waverly's voice answered him and, by quick calculation, Napoleon figured it was about 3 A.M.  He shook his head in wonder as to whether or not the Old Man ever slept.  Napoleon had already come to the conclusion that he didn't eat.

 

"Sir, we are outside the camp that the Brandise spy was in."

 

"Was, Mr. Solo?"

 

"Yes, Sir, he's dead.  THRUSH dealt him a similar hand as Broderick.  Apparently, whatever this gizmo is, they are insisting upon exclusive rights to it.  He was definitely connected because Brandise's machine is sitting beside a tent just as plain as day.  I don't think THRUSH is expecting us."

 

"Excellent, Mr. Solo.  Go on and do your best to find out what they are planning to do with the machine."

               

"Then, Sir?"

                                 

"Destroy it, man!  We can't have something like that in THRUSH's hands."

 

"Yes, Sir," Napoleon said, hesitating. "Have you heard anything from Illya?"

 

"I'm afraid there's been no word as of yet, but I remain hopeful.  Carry on."

 

"Yes, sir."  Napoleon said.  For a long moment, he stared at the instrument, then closed the channel and began to organize his thoughts.  Whether Illya was in danger or not, Napoleon had a job to do and he'd given his solemn vow that he'd perform it to the best of his abilities.  With Napoleon Solo, those abilities were considerable.

 

                                                                                ****

 

"Ow!"

 

That was Munroe's opinion as the coffin was unceremoniously dropped.  Since their departure from the plane, they had been jostled, thrown and inverted a time or two.  Coffins were not exceptionally well padded, although the occupants seldom complained.

 

"I wonder where we are," she said, straining to rub a bruised side. 

 

"Well, unless I miss my guess, we're in a desert," Illya said.  Since they had been unloaded, he'd been keeping quiet and listening.  "Or a circus." 

 

"How do you figure that?"

 

Illya didn't need to take a deep breath to smell the odor that had been assailing his nose for the past half hour.  "Can't you smell the camels?"

 

"Oh, is that what that is?  I wondered if my deodorant had given out.  We don't get many camels in Wisconsin.  We could be in Virginia City, you know."

 

"Where?"

 

"Virginia City, Nevada.  They have camel races there once a year.  We had someone from the office go once."

 

"You shall have to tell me about it at length once we're out of here," Illya said, breaking off as the lid of their crate creaked and then was thrown back.  Immediately, rifle barrels were pointed at them.  The faces of the men were lost in yards of stained, dirty cloth.

 

"Don't know what you're worried about," Illya said easily.  "I can hardly move, much less escape."  The gunmen didn't seem impressed, for none of the barrels swayed in the least.

 

"Wow, you really do have a reputation," Munroe said, eyeing Illya over, as if seeing him for the first time.  "Gilbert didn't warn me."

 

"I've tried to leave my mark on humanity."  Illya was modest.

 

"Out!" one of the robed figures ordered, waving a threatening rifle at them.

 

"Music to my ears," Salem said, struggling into a sitting position.  "Oh my god, maybe I spoke too soon."  Several hands were immediately extended to help her up.  Illya remained still, trying to appear as harmless as possible.  THRUSH had a nasty reputation of shooting first, then yelling 'halt'.  He wasn't about to give them a provocation.  When it came his turn, he was left to his own devices and groped his way out under his own power.  He closed his eyes against the pain that moving the stiffened joints created and remained silent.  Any protests would be likely to fall upon deaf ears anyway.

 

"C'mon!"  One man, obviously Arabian, but in a THRUSH jumpsuit, grabbed Illya's arm.  "The boss wants to talk to you."

 

"They always do," Illya said, stretching his back muscles.  The man was not amused by the Russian's comment and gave him a sharp push forward.  Illya nearly stumbled, but regained his footing, then crouched, spun and prepared to do grievous bodily harm to the man.  Immediately a dozen rifles came to bear upon him and Illya straightened slowly, his hands up in a classic surrender position.  Then he spotted it, a large crate with 'Brandise Oil Drilling' painted on the side of it.  Napoleon had been sent to check out the Brandise Oil Company; it had been connected with Broderick. 

 

Unfortunately a brief glimpse was all he was afforded for both he and Munroe were half dragged, half pushed into a red‑striped tent, then left alone.  Illya staggered forward and collapsed upon a pile of pillows before starting to pull off his winter gear.  It was definitely not needed here.  After stripping down to his undershirt, he glanced over at a pacing Munroe.

 

"What a bunch of beginners," Salem said, looking around the interior of the tent.  "They take us prisoner and then abandon us.  Let's get out of here."

 

Illya gestured to the tent flap.  "Be my guest."

 

With a confused look, Salem marched to the flap and pulled it back.  Immediately, guns were thrust in her face and she stumbled back a step. 

 

"And even if you could get out of camp, there's a rather large expanse of desert that you would have to cross.  Without water or the proper clothes, you wouldn't stand much of a chance," Illya said, selecting a date from a nearby dish and biting carefully into it.  "Trust me, this isn't my first trip here.  Take your coat off and have something to eat.  You'll need your strength."

 

"What for?"  Salem plopped down beside him.  "You seemed to indicate that an escape attempt was pointless.  Why even bother?" She struggled out of the heavy, fleece-lined jacket and threw it aside.

 

"Because you can never tell when opportunity might turn to favor you.  I may be a realist, but I am also an opportunist.  Until I know who's running the show here, I am content to wait."  Illya offered her a date and studied the interior of the tent.  Despite his light banter, he was gravely concerned about their predicament.  A desert locale made escape twice as difficult as usual.  He'd have to be on the lookout for a jeep, or even better, a helicopter.  That would have to wait until he'd met with the man in charge here.  There were still several questions that Illya had about Broderick's machine and why a crate from the Brandise Oil Company was sitting out here in the middle of the desert.  He also carried the small hope that Napoleon might be someplace nearby.

 

                                                                                ****

 

Napoleon Solo pushed back his hood and welcomed the breeze that caressed his damp dark hair.  Hidden in the shadows of a tent, he could afford just a moment of abandoning his disguise.  At the corner of the tent, Asad watched, his eyes studying the camp. 

 

"Your partner, Napoleon, would he be about 5'9" and weigh about 140?  Very blond?"

 

"Give or take an inch and a few pounds, why?" Napoleon asked, slipping the hood back into place.

 

"I think I just saw him put into a tent.  There was someone else with him, a woman it looked like.  I couldn't really tell."

 

"You can't tell the difference, Asad?  You've been with your camels too long."  Napoleon looked across the shimmering sands at the red-and-white striped tent.

 

Asad laughed and slapped his side.  "Very good, my friend.  Normally, I can tell, but this one had a big coat on.  So did your partner."

 

"That would make sense, I guess.  Illya was in Wisconsin when we lost touch with him.  If he was picked up there and brought directly here, he would still be dressed for the cold," Napoleon said, looking down to realize he was standing in a pile of goat droppings.  He quickly removed his foot and scraped against the sand.  "So, what do you suggest?"

 

"I find that water does the best..." Asad trailed off.  "Oh, you mean about your partner.  I would suggest we wait until dark.  Then we will have the best chance of approaching the tent undetected."

 

"Why can't we just go now?  I thought you'd been wandering through the camp all week for the sole purpose of being ignored."

 

"All except that tent."  Asad dropped back his own hood and revealed a swollen and bruised ear.  "I got too close to that tent and this is the result.  Whatever or whoever is in that tent, they do not want to be disturbed."  He pulled the hood back up and squatted down.  "We should wait until dark."  Napoleon couldn't find an argument to move him from the spot, although he tried until he was hoarse.  Finally, Napoleon mimicked the posture and waited.

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

Illya Kuryakin woke suddenly, sitting up abruptly.  Somehow, between the tension of the trip and the heat in the tent, he'd dozed off.  Beside him, Salem continued to sleep and Illya deemed it wiser to leave her alone.  If he were going to affect any sort of an escape, it would be better planned without the help of a well-meaning desk agent.

 

He rose and walked to the tent flaps, pushing one aside slightly to get a better view of the camp.  Dawn was starting to break and Illya could see the glow of a blistering day creeping over the horizon.  There were still guards on either side of the tent entrance, but neither looked as much of a challenge now that he had rested and eaten.

 

Illya retreated and went over to a low table, which held the fruit, cheese and wine the two UNCLE agents had partaken of earlier.  Illya lifted a bottle and tested its weight.  The hardest part would be to hit both guards before either had a chance to cry out. With the robes they would steal, he and Salem should be able to move through the camp undetected long enough to grab a vehicle. 

 

Illya gathered up two bottles and returned to the flaps.  Approximating where one man, then the other, was standing, he drew one bottle back.

 

"That could be a tragic mistake, Mr. K," came a woman's voice from a darkened corner of the tent and Illya froze.  She stepped into view and smiled.  "Hello...again."  In her hands was a formidable-looking piece of hardware.

 

"Hello, Arlene."  Illya turned back around slowly. "How's tricks?"

 

"I'm here and you're there, you tell me."  She walked towards him, casually, but with the gun at ready.  "Where's the big S?  I was sure the two of you were inseparable.  Lover's spat?"

 

"I don't see how that's any of your business, Arlene."  Illya lowered the bottle and then dropped both to the sand.

 

" _Au contraire, mon_ cher, it's very much my business.  I wouldn't feel right knowing he's out in the cold desert night while you and I," Arlene said, pausing to look down at Munroe, "and she are in here comfy cozy."

 

As if aware that she was being talked about, Salem woke and sat up slowly.  "Illya, what's going on?" she asked, her voice fuzzy from sleep.

    

"Move away from the door and introduce me to your friend, pet," Arlene said, gesturing away from the door flaps.

 

 "Salem Munroe, Arlene Westin.  Arlene, Salem," Illya said, walking back to the pillows and offering the UNCLE agent a hand up.

 

Arlene approached her and used the tip of the gun barrel to brush aside a strand of black hair.  "It's a shame you're not blonde," she said, shaking her head.  “We would get so much more for you in the slave market.  Salem...that's an unusual name."

 

"My mother was fond of witches," Salem said, taking a step back away from the THRUSH and towards Illya.

 

"I see.  And are you?"

 

"I prefer the here and now, reality to fantasy," Salem said, obviously trying to appear tough.  Arlene was unimpressed.

 

"After I'm through, you might feel otherwise."

 

"Come on, Arlene.  You know UNCLE better than that," Illya protested.  "They'd never let her out in the field if you could break her that easily."

 

The woman chuckled and sat, placing long, flawless legs up on the table, not far from the fruit platter, the robe sliding back to reveal a vast expanse of flawless thigh.  "Should I take that as a challenge, pet, and give it a try?"  At the lack of an answer, she laughed.  "I wasn't thinking along those lines, dear Illya, more on the order of white slavery. I know a goat herder who'd pay considerable amount for a crack at her lily-white body, even for one night.  Do you know how nomads make love to slaves?"

 

“I remember," Illya interrupted, sitting down slowly, his eyes constantly upon the gun.  For her part, Arlene kept well out of his range.  She'd obviously learned a lesson last time.

 

Munroe sighed.  "More scars?”  Illya nodded.  “My mother always said I was going places, but I don't think she was talking about pillow bait.  Before you sell me off, would you mind if I tidied up a bit?  Fourteen hours in a coffin doesn't leave me with that daisy-fresh feeling that I like to have before having my flesh sold."

 

"That's a reasonable request.  Besides, we'll be starting our blond‑haired Adonis's question-and-answer session soon and I'm sure you'd rather not be on hand for that.  Men can be so pitiful when they’re sobbing," Arlene said, then depressed a button and immediately a robed guard appeared.  "Take this woman to the guest tent and keep a close eye until Asad comes.  Barter with him and get what you can for her."

 

"Yes, Ma'am," the guard said, saluting.

 

"Also send the doctor to me.  We will be needing his services."

 

Illya watched Salem leave and then he turned back to the auburn‑haired woman.

 

"Okay, Arlene, give me the scoop.  What's this all about?"

 

"Surely you know by now, Mr. K," Arlene said, brushing aside the edge of her robe so that the view of her legs was less obstructed.

 

"There are some rather large holes in my side of the story," Illya admitted.  "I'm not even sure what I'm looking for yet, much less what you people want to use it for."

 

She nodded, directing him to the low-slung chair beside her and Illya cautiously slid into it, keeping his attention purposefully focused on her face.

 

Arlene reached for a bottle and poured from it, handing Illya one of the two glasses she filled.  "You agree that you're looking for Broderick's device?"

 

"Yes," Illya said, then drained the cup of its wine and set it down.  "But I don't see why you had to murder him, burn his house and practically us down for it."

 

"Isn't it obvious to even you, Mr. K.?  We did it for exclusive rights, along with eliminating replicating abilities.  You know how tidy we are."

 

"It's an admirable trait, for someone else.  What are you planning to use it for?  Melt down selected sand traps and then hold the rest of the golf courses for ransom?"

 

"That's the trouble with you UNCLEs, you think too small. Although basically, you're right," Arlene said, pouring a second glass of wine for him.  ‘We are considering the Sahara for a start.  It was stupid of those assassins to kill Broderick before they had the machine's plans, but that's all right.  We'll manage somehow."  She stroked her thigh with one finger as she sipped her wine.  "We have the prototype of Broderick's device sitting not a hundred feet from here.  We will study it until we can duplicate it in a larger, more practical version."

 

"I saw it coming in.  It's going to take a long time for one laser, even a large one, to melt all of this."  Illya gestured around him, using the movement to evaluate any previously overlooked escape routes.

 

"Which is where the satellite comes in."

 

"Satellite," Illya repeated, deadpan, returning his attention to her.  "Now I think you've lost me."

 

"We plan to deflect the beam off a convenient satellite, which will disperse the beam and melt practically the whole desert in one attempt.  The outer fringes don't really matter."

 

"And what of the people that live here?" Illya asked.   "Casualties of war?"

               

"Exactly.  Unfortunate, but necessary in any war."  She poured more wine for each of them.

 

"What then?  You'll have a sheet of glass."

 

"Miles and miles of it.  Think of the heat that would be produced by that, which could then be concentrated by a second satellite and used for a devastating heat ray."

 

"This has to be the most outlandish takeover plan yet.  Have you even considered the environmental implications?  Of what you will do to the world climate?  Don't you people ever get tired of playing this game?" Illya asked, setting his glass down and brushing his sweat-damp hair off his forehead.

 

"We figure if we play it long enough, we will win eventually."  She motioned to his discarded glass.  "Drink up.  Once the doctor gets here, we will, unfortunately, have to start a very serious question and answer period.  The more you drink now, the less it'll hurt later."

 

"You do have a point.  Besides, drunk I'll make even less sense than I might sober," Illya said as the tent flaps folded back and two burly men stepped inside.  He paid them little attention until Arlene rose and crossed her arms, smiling.

 

"First, I'm afraid we'll have to make sure you're harmless.  Had one of you fellows blow up on a co‑worker of mine, God rest her soul.  Stand up, please."

 

Illya sprawled back in the chair, his smile a wordless challenge to Arlene.  One guard hauled Illya roughly to his feet by one arm and the other THRUSH grabbed the free arm.  Between the two, they held him in place very firmly.  Of course, with two guards holding him, that left only one person to search him - Illya hadn't realized that beforehand.  His smile disappeared as Arlene drew closer.

 

Arlene flexed her fingers and began a very thorough lingering search.  Illya closed his eyes against the tingling sensation that Arlene's hands and fingers were creating, concentrating on anything that would keep his mind off the roving hands and the physical response they were dredging up.

 

She removed a sizable portion of his arsenal and then stood back, obviously relishing the next order even before she said it.

 

"Now, strip him."

 

"Arlene!" Illya protested, even as his tee shirt was wrestled from him.

 

"I once heard that you constructed an acetylene torch from the cuffs of your pants.  You escaped then and I don't intend to be tricked, not by you or anyone else."

 

Illya fought bravely until he was down to just the thin protection of his shorts.

 

"C'mon, Arlene, have a heart."

 

She laughed and shook her head.  "But, Illya, this is the best part, although I have to admit that you don't look very dangerous now.  You look sort of pitiful actually.  Let him keep his underwear, gentlemen, but take the elastic out of the waistband.  You used that for a slingshot to escape from a friend of mine.  You are inventive if nothing else."

 

"You know what they say about necessity being the mother of invention," Illya said as one of the guards cut the elastic out with an oversized Swiss Army knife, its blade slashing uncomfortably close to Illya's skin.

 

Arlene stood back to admire her handiwork.  "Good, excellent.  Now, take a seat, my blond darling."  Arlene gave him a shove backward into the chair and Illya scrambled to keep his underwear in place.  Another man stuck his head through the tent flaps and cleared his throat.

 

"You wanted to see me, Miss Westin?" he asked, adjusting his glasses slightly.  He seemed oblivious to the guards as he focused his attention upon Illya.

 

"Yes, Doctor, I remembered how you were telling me about your latest creation.  You were bemoaning the fact that THRUSH wasn't being quite as generous with its human subjects as in the past."

 

"I didn't mean to make it sound like a complaint."  The man sounded fearful for his life.

 

"Nothing of the sort, Doctor.  I just recalled that you said your new truth serum was ready for the market, except that you hadn't been able to test it on a human.  Am I correct?"

 

"Yes, quite correct."

 

"Your guinea pig, doctor."  She gestured to Illya.  "He's an UNCLE agent, so he should give your serum quite a run for its money."

 

"Wonderful."  The man dropped his hands into the pocket of the white lab coat he wore.  "I was praying that would be why you wanted to see me.  Once I heard that there were UNCLE agents in camp, I was hoping the opportunity would present itself."  He hesitated as he removed a black case from a deep pocket.  "Of course, this could leave him a vegetable."

 

"I have spent some of my best times with vegetables," Arlene said sweetly.  "Inject him, Doctor, please."        

 

Illya pulled against the grip of his guards, but their hold remained firm and unrelenting.  The doctor approached him and reached for his arm.  His bicep was massaged for a moment, swabbed and then he felt a pinch in his arm.  He closed his eyes against the pain as the drug laced through his arm, vowing to fight it as much as he could, for all the good it would be likely to do him.  Since this was untested, it was possible that the drug might be able to get around the numerous mental and chemical blocks that UNCLE put in place.

 

The doctor pulled out the hypo and rubbed the injected area on Illya's arm as Arlene bent close to inspect the Russian's face. 

 

"How long before it takes effect?" 

               

The doctor hunched his shoulders. "I'm not really sure.  In the mice, it was almost instantaneous, but with the monkeys, it took a few minutes.  It varies a little because of weight and metabolic rates, but it should happen very soon."

 

Abruptly, Illya sagged down against the grip of his guards as sudden warmth hit him, spreading throughout his limbs, removing all his ability to control them.  It reminded Illya of a belt of 180-proof vodka and it had about the same effect.  If this was indeed a reaction to the doctor's new truth serum, it could put bars out of business.  Illya found this amusing and smiled at the thought.

 

 

"Well, my dear blond, it looks like you're a mouse and not an ape," Arlene said, laughing.  The doctor joined her and Illya saw no reason not to be included, so he began to chuckle as well.  Immediately, Arlene sobered.  "What's wrong with him?"

 

The doctor carefully returned the syringe to its case and dropped it back into the pocket it had come from.   "Not a thing in the world to his way of thinking, Miss Wilson.  You'll discover that force won't do you any good.  The drug seems to have a curious numbing effect.  It also renders the subject completely harmless, so you don't have to worry about escape attempts."

 

Arlene nodded, obviously unconvinced and said,  "Well, if that's the case, we won't need you two."  She motioned the guards aside and they permitted the Russian to sink to the floor of the tent.  "He certainly doesn't look like he's going anywhere.  In fact, he looks drunk."

               

"Relaxed, Miss Westin, that's how my other subjects felt.  Very...relaxed."

 

"He looks like if he were any more relaxed, he'd stop breathing."

 

"A distinct possibility.  The drug works in a similar method to alcohol, stimulating some areas of the brain, repressing others.  You will have no resistance."

 

"Thank you, Doctor...I think."  She waited for him to exit the tent before returning her attention to Illya.  "And now, Mr. Kuryakin, what are the home addresses of the Section 1, No. 1's of UNCLE?"

 

                                                                                ***

 

An hour of exhausting and vigorous questioning left her none the wiser.  All Illya had given her had been nonsense and the Russian was now slumped asleep on the floor, occasionally hiccupping, but that was the only sign of life from the man.  In disgust, she summoned the guards and waited, tapping her foot impatiently.

 

"I will have to tell the doctor to go back to the drawing board.  Obviously this is not what we want in a truth serum.  He's no good to us this way and I seriously doubt if any of our other methods would be any more effective."  Two men appeared at the tent flap and Arlene gestured to the supine form.  "Take him out to the desert and leave him to the vultures. Perhaps they will get more out of him than me.  When you return, bring me the other UNCLE agent.  Perhaps we'll have better luck with her."

 

Arlene sank into the pile of pillows and lifted her goblet to the unconscious body that was being dragged out. "Illya, dear Illya, if you weren't always so spiteful."  She drank, then sadly sighed, shaking her head.  "The plans I had for you later this evening."

 

 

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

Napoleon Solo lifted an edge of his 'iqal' higher about his face as he and Asad moved deeper into the THRUSH camp and closer to the laser.  All he needed now was to have some THRUSH operative recognize him.

 

"I wonder what they're planning to do with it," he murmured to the Arab as they passed close by the box.

 

"Heard them talking about something called 'Operation Mirror', if that's any help," Asad said,

 

"Not really, but at least I'll be able to send that back to Mr. Waverly.  Something might have come through on the channels," Napoleon said, and then waved his hand in front of his face.  "Does everything here smell like camels?"

 

"Not everything, some things smell like goat..."

 

Asad stopped as Napoleon held up a silencing hand.

               

"A helicopter," Napoleon said, as he and Asad stood in front of the single rotor helicopter.   

 

"It's two weeks to the nearest large settlement from this point.  Don't forget, you came to me in a plane yourself.  We only walked the last few miles in."

 

"I know, but,” Napoleon trailed off as a shapely brunette exited from a tent, scanning the immediately area for something or someone.  "Oh no," he moaned softly.

 

"What's wrong, my friend.  That's only..."

 

"Arlene.  What's she doing here?  If she recognizes me, we are in big trouble.  Illya and I are responsible for more than a little misery in her life.  I just hope she didn't get her talons into him."

 

"Oh, you know her then."

 

"Only too well.  Asad, I think it might be time for us to put a little distance between her and us."

 

"Don't be hasty."  Asad bent down and scooped up a handful of camel dung, smearing it onto Napoleon's robe.

 

"Oh my god."  Napoleon's eyes began to tear at the smell.

 

 "Now the only one who would hang around you would be another Arab or a female camel, of course."

 

"That doesn't exactly fill me with confidence.  I may not smell like a bouquet of roses, but that's not going to stop her from looking."

 

"Ah, but it will if you're too busy working to pay any attention to her," Asad said, smiling and thrusting a basket at him.

 

"I'm almost afraid to ask the next question."  Napoleon regarded the stained basket with a wary eye.  "I'm collecting eggs, right?"

 

"Well, that's very close in principle.  Same general area, even if the by‑product isn't quite on target.  You are collecting camel eggs.  You have just been appointed groundskeeper."

 

"This doesn't exactly go with my image."

 

 "Neither do bullet holes, my friend.  Neither do bullet holes.  Now, go, go."  He slapped Napoleon's shoulder as the senior agent hurried away, already bent to his task.

 

"Asad!"  Arlene's voice interrupted him and the Arab turned quickly, bowing low again and again.

 

"Yes, madam, you have need for me, madam?" Asad asked as he held up two handfuls of camel manure.  "You need some camel dung, perhaps, good for fires, madam."

 

She started waving her hand before her face.  "Must you people roll in the stuff?" she asked of Napoleon, who kept bent, eager on his collecting.

 

"He doesn't speak English, madam, just goat," Asad interrupted, pulling her attention away from the UNCLE agent.  "What is it you wish?"

 

"I have a little task for you."

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Napoleon waited until the two had disappeared from his view, then he made an erratic, but purposeful course over to the device, all the while picking up handfuls of various animal dung and dumping it into the woven basket.  It was going to take a lot of manicures to fix his fingernails after this.

 

He settled beside the crate and ran a hand over the rough timber.  Whatever this device's purpose, two men had already died for it and it was quite probable that Illya had joined their ranks, especially if Arlene had anything to say in the matter.   He picked up another handful of manure and contemplated his next course of action.  He had his usual arsenal, but what to use was the problem. A large explosion with him in the area would look suspicious.  It would also mean instant death should Illya and his partner still be alive.  No, what was needed was something that used a delayed timer, something that would be as likely to surprise him as the rest of the camp.  Suddenly, Napoleon's lips curled into a devilishly delighted grin.

 

Casting a careful glance around, he reached through his robe and into a pocket of his pants.  Illya often chided Napoleon for never cleaning out his pockets, and true to form, Napoleon's hand found a soft wad of putty-like explosive.  He began to scan for a convenient niche to hide it in.  Unfortunately, all the areas exposed to the blistering sun were much too light in color to house the plastic explosives without easy and immediate detection.  It needed to be in a spot that would generate enough heat, yet be invisible.  Napoleon looked around again and his attention dropped to the desert floor.  The grin from a moment ago returned and Napoleon wondered just how he'd relate this tale at the next UNCLE get-together.

 

He took the explosive, plastic bag and all, and stuffed it into a pile of camel dung.  From the internal temperature and direction of the sun, Napoleon knew he'd made the right choice.  This particular pile would remain in the sun's direct rays for the hottest part of the day.  If that didn't trigger the device, then Napoleon always had more reliable methods to choose from.

 

His mission accomplished for the moment, he returned to his earlier task and moved back in the direction of Asad and Arlene. 

 

"Here she is, Asad," Arlene said as Napoleon slowly worked his way closer to the Arabian UNCLE agent.  He pulled his robe closer about his face and flicked up a casual eye to see Arlene shove a woman at Asad.  "Take her and see what you can get for her."

 

"Maybe 400."

 

"Is that all?"  Arlene was incredulous.  "She's young, in good condition and of child bearing age."

 

"But she also not blond.  But perhaps my uncle.  He's a very lonely man you see, ever since the enemies of a neighboring tribe cut off his..."

 

"Never mind, Asad, I really don't care to hear about your uncle or any other member of your family.  Just get her out of my sight.  We've got work to do here.  Take your smelly friend with you," Arlene said, choking as Napoleon came closer.  "And put him some place downwind."

 

 "Yes, madam."  Asad bowed several times, Napoleon imitating the movements as Arlene stalked away.  It was obvious that she was not a happy woman.

 

"My friend, did you fix the item?" Asad spoke quietly, quickly, as if ignorant of the woman he held firmly by the arm.

 

"Listen, fellows," Salem protested.  "If it's all the same to you, I really look lousy in veils."

 

"You'll be all right," Napoleon said, reassuringly.  "I know his uncle and he's not that bad."  Napoleon tried his best to be gallant, even with dirty, odorous robes making him want to gasp for breath. "You'll be safely deposited until we can get to civilization.  Then, you'll be set free."  He looked around furtively, and then back at Asad.  "Now, if we could only find Illya."

 

"Illya?"  Salem was shocked.  "You know him? You know Illya?"  Asad and Napoleon exchanged confused looks.

 

"You have seen a misplaced Russian?"  Asad was careful.

 

"Yes, we were brought here together, but separated when they wanted to question him.  I don't know where he is now.  The last time I saw him was in Arlene's tent."  She sighed and bit a bottom lip.  "Listen, you guys have got to help me.  These people here are really bad and they plan to do terrible things to your desert, even destroy it altogether.  It would mean certain death to your people.  I have an uncle of my own who wants to help."

 

"Who are you?" Napoleon asked as he and Asad hurried her from the center of the camp to a more secluded spot by the camels.

 

"My name is Salem Munroe and I live in Wisconsin and work for my uncle."

 

"You never know where you're going to find one," Napoleon said and dropped his protective 'iqal' for a brief moment before raising it again.  "Napoleon Solo, out of New York."

 

"You're Illya's partner?"

 

"In the flesh.  At least we know Illya's in camp.  Any idea on how to find out what's going on with him, Asad?"

 

"Wait, I will go ask," Asad said, slapping his shoulder.

 

"Won't that seem a bit suspicious?" Napoleon asked, avoiding the muzzle of a curious camel. 

 

"Not if you know how to ask the proper questions of the proper people," Asad said reassuringly.  "Will the two of you be able to stay out of trouble for a few moments?  Napoleon, you might be..." Asad paused, thinking for a moment,  "How would you put it...um... checking out the merchandise?"

 

"That's putting it quite nicely, Asad," Napoleon said with a nod.  He watched the man scurry back into the camp and Napoleon turned back to the woman, suddenly all business.  "Did you and Illya find out anything about Broderick?"

 

"No, we must have been detected going into the house.  They smoked us out literally.  What about you?"

 

“Practically nothing."  Napoleon now turned his attention to her clothes, admitting that an Arab would find the heavier Northern garments unusual.  He pondered the problem for a few minutes until Asad rejoined them.

 

"Where is he, Asad?"  Napoleon turned his full attention to the Arab.

 

"Very bad, Napoleon.  According to the man I asked they have taken him out into the desert to die."

 

"Die, are you sure?"

 

"You don't take people out there to show them the sights, my friend.  After two sand dunes, they all look the same.  We'd better hurry if what the guard said was correct."

 

"Was he hurt?"  Napoleon's concern was obvious as he grasped Asad's arm.      

 

"Naked," Asad said. "The sun will kill him in hours, if a nomadic tribe doesn't find him first." 

 

"It's time to get out of here anyhow," Napoleon said, glancing around.  "I've put enough explosive around that laser to send this whole section of the desert to the Pearly Gates and possibly beyond."  Asad and Salam exchanged glances as Napoleon continued, "It would behoove us to be far away when it goes."

 

Asad nodded solemnly and hooked a thumb over his shoulder.  "Napoleon, you and the nice lady here should take the camels.  I will wait for an opportunity and try to procure one of their jeeps or maybe even the helicopter, if I have the chance.  Mount up and I will find out in what direction they took your partner."  With that, Asad moved back away from them and toward a nearby group of men.

 

"Do you know how to drive one of these things?" Salem asked doubtfully.  "I've never even been this close to one before."

 

"You get it aimed in the direction it wants to go and then wait until it decides to."  Napoleon grabbed the closest camel's halter and pulled down on it.  The animal made a crude bleat and looked balefully at the man before kneeling.  "With any luck, it'll be the same direction that they took Illya in.  Your ship awaits, ma'am."

 

 

He was helping her mount when Asad returned them with a flourish of robes.

 

"Napoleon, I have found where they dropped Illya.  He's been taken about 40 miles out that way."  He waved to the west.  "I couldn't get exact directions."

 

 "Aren't they suspicious that you asked?"  Salem squirmed, attempting to find a comfortable spot on the saddle.

 

"No, I told them I wanted his hair.  Blond hair is very valuable around here."

 

"Boy, am I glad I didn't dye my hair last month like I wanted to."  Salem's tone was rueful, but she was distracted by Napoleon's mournful complaint.

 

"Terrific, one desert, one Russian.  Talk about the proverbial needle."  Napoleon grimaced at the Arab.  "Asad, you'll have to try for the helicopter.  We'll need to get back to civilization as quickly as possible.  I don't think Illya will be in much condition to travel for too long."

 

"You're right."  Asad pulled off one of his outer robes.  "Here, he'll need this also."

 

"Thanks."  Napoleon threw it over the saddle before he mounted.  "And, Asad, be careful."

 

"I am always so, my friend.  To be otherwise would to be a dead man.  I do have to ask one question before you go, though.  "Where did you manage to put it that no one will see it?"

 

"Leave it to Yankee ingenuity.  You have about two hours, Asad."

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

Illya Kuryakin took two staggering steps and fell back to the sand.  The heat from it and the sun pulled his energy from him, robbing him, not only of that, but of his body's moisture as well.  He didn't need a doctor to tell him that he'd soon be in dire straits if he didn't find some shade or water or both ‑ his swollen tongue, his cramping joints could argue with the AMA's best at the moment and win.

 

With a supreme effort, Illya pulled himself into a sitting position and cradled his throbbing head against his skinned knees.  Whether it was a symptom of the drug they gave him or of the heat, it didn't matter.  Either way, it was pounding hard enough to keep him on the edge of blacking out.

 

He rose shakily, his legs complaining bitterly at having to support his weight.  They carried him another few steps before dropping him to his hands and knees.  No, he told himself, he was in the process of getting one massive case of sunstroke and he'd only been out here a short while.  Should he even make it to nightfall, a feat he felt was rapidly slipping through his fingers, the chill of the night would no doubt finish the sun's job.

 

If only he had some protection, anything, but his skin remained his only barrier against the sun, its surface a blotchy red, but he'd be dead long before the burn started to hurt.  His only salvation was to keep moving.

 

Illya tried to haul himself up, fighting off a wave of nausea that had already long since robbed his stomach of its contents, adding to his general misery.

 

Looking off in the distance, he noticed some black shapes on the rise of a sand dune.  For all the world, it looked like something out of 'Lawrence of Arabia'.

 

"Another mirage," he whispered through cracked lips. "Just what I need."  The last one had made him want to snatch up a surfboard and try to hang ten on the big beautiful waves that were crashing in. 

 

Ignoring both the mirage and the pain that the movements caused, he managed to get to his feet and move a few more steps.

 

                                                                                ****

 

"Napoleon, over there!"  Salem pointed off to her right, as Napoleon turned about in his saddle to follow her pointing finger.

 

"I don't see anything."  Napoleon's mood was growing fouler with each moment that passed and didn't reveal the Russian to him.  If they didn't find Illya soon, he'd be heading back to New York in the same way he'd gotten here in the first place, in a coffin.   It had to be well over a hundred degrees by now.

 

"Hold on a minute.  I know I saw something move," she insisted and attempted to rein her camel from going any further.  "There!  Did you see it?"

 

"No, but we'll check it out.  Until Asad gets here with the helicopter and we can continue the search by air."  Napoleon dug his heels into his camel's sides and urged it into a gallop, leaving Salem behind.

 

Napoleon kept from getting his hopes up until he was certain of the blond hair, the set of the shoulders and just as Asad had said, naked to the world except for his shorts.  Napoleon would be lucky if Illya wasn't already too far gone to make it back.  Napoleon slid off the camel and ran the last few yards on foot, sliding and stumbling on the shifting sand.

 

The fallen, barely conscious figure didn't register his presence and Napoleon found his voice shaky with worry when he tried to talk.

 

"Illya?"

 

The head moved slightly and Napoleon began to dig through his robes for his canteen as he knelt beside his partner.  Salem joined him, Asad's robe in her arms.

 

"Is he alive?"

 

"No," came a croaking whisper from the Russian.  "I am not alive."

 

 "Take it easy," Napoleon ordered as he helped Illya to sit up.  He held the water up to Illya's lips, murmuring, "Only a little, Illya."  He draped a robe around the slender shoulders, waiting for the man to signal the next move.

 

"You certainly are cutting your rescue closer than I'd prefer." Illya sipped the water carefully, despite the temptation to gulp at it.  He dropped his head, content to rest against Napoleon and smiled over weakly at Salem.  "Have you two been properly introduced?" Illya asked and then sagged limply against Napoleon.

 

"Illya?"  Salem grabbed an arm frantically, but Napoleon placed his hand on her arm gently.

 

"He's just passed out, but we are going to have to get him some medical help.  I wonder how Asad is doing?"

 

"Do you think he was telling the truth about knowing how to fly one of those?"

 

"I hope so."  Napoleon spread the rest of the robe protectively over the reddened skin.  "We've got a severe case of heat stroke here, plus a nasty sun burn, plus whatever Arlene pumped into him.  I think a camel ride will be too long.  According to Asad, we're twenty miles from the nearest village."

 

From far in the distance, a cloud of sand rose up into the brilliant blue sky and a rumbling sound slid over the smooth dunes to them.

 

"Ah, laser malfunction at two o'clock high."  He stood, stooping to sling the unconscious man over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.  "See if you can work some magic with my camel and get her down.  I'll never get aboard like this."

 

"We're not waiting for Asad?" Munroe asked as she pulled down on the animal's halter with as much strength as she could muster.  With several bleats of complaint, the animal knelt and Napoleon mounted awkwardly.

 

"No, if he didn't manage to clear camp before the explosion or was killed trying to escape, we've got to try and get back ourselves."

               

They rode for several minutes in silence, both lost in their own thoughts.  Napoleon could feel the heat of Illya's body radiating through his and the Russian's robes and used the cadence he'd achieved with the camel to unscrew his canteen's cap and dribble some of its contents over the unconscious man's face.  Illya started for a moment until Napoleon's voice urged him.

 

"Just sit still, Illya, you're on a camel and I don't think you want to fall off.  A broken arm wouldn't help your condition."

 

"I thought it was another mirage," Illya said hoarsely, immediately relaxing at his partner’s voice.  "Why am I on a camel?"

 

Napoleon held the canteen for him as Illya drank the water.  "Because I am," Napoleon said, as if that were explanation enough.  Apparently it satisfied the Russian.

 

"I don't feel very well, Napoleon, I think I need some medical attention."

 

"We certainly agree with that," Salem said from her camel.  "And we are in pursuit of the medical attention at this very moment, just not very quickly."  A dull _wop‑wop_ cut the still desert air interrupting her and she laughed.  "Asad is still with us, Napoleon."

 

Salem waved up at the helicopter as it drew nearer.

 

"Of course, it could be enemy forces," Napoleon murmured as he squinted, trying to make out the face of the pilot.

 

"I thought Illya said he was the pessimist in the partnership," Salem said, suddenly not so anxious to be seen.

 

"Yes, well, at the moment, I feel obligated to keep up both ends.  Obviously Illya isn't up to doing his part.  Salem, I need you to dismount for me.  Illya's unconscious again and I'm never going to get both of us off this accursed beast."  Salem stopped her camel and dismounted as the helicopter landed a few dozen yards from them.

 

A robed figure climbed out and hurried over to them, shouting above the dying engine,  "Hey, you the party who called for a taxi?"

 

 

Epilogue

 

"Unfortunately, we weren't able to recover Broderick's device, but it won't be doing THRUSH any good either.  Our cleanup crew says there's not much left but memories at the camp."  Napoleon spoke casually into his communicator as he sat in the cafeteria at the UNCLE‑Africa office.  Most of the people who sat at the other tables ignored him for the most part.

 

"And Mr. Kuryakin?" asked the gravelly voice of his superior.

 

"He's still in the hospital, but the doctors say he should be recovered enough to travel in another couple of days.  From what he's told me, he'll be able to shed some light on what THRUSH's plans were for the device."  Napoleon touched the tip of his sun burnt nose tenderly.  He didn’t even want to think of how the Russian felt.

 

"Excellent, Mr. Solo.  Report back to New York as soon as possible.  There is a matter here that requires Mr. Kuryakin's immediate attention.  Out."

 

Napoleon looked down at the now silent instrument and then over at his companion.  "Well, I suppose we could go wish Illya a slow recovery.  Mr. Waverly didn't sound pleased."

 

Salem looked up from her cup of coffee and smiled carefully.  Her own face was magenta red and it was obvious that she was in pain.  "Wouldn't do me any good.  I have a flight leaving in four hours for cold, frigid snowy Wisconsin and will it be good to be home!"  She pulled her hair off her neck and shook it. "Now I know what that adage, there's no place like home, means.  I'm just not cut out for fieldwork, especially desert fieldwork.  And just think of the story I'm going to have to come up with to explain my sunburn."

 

"Welcome to the world of field operatives.  We spend half of our time in mortal danger and the other half lying like crazy to explain the other half.  I think Gilbert will understand your desire for deskwork from now on.  Do you need a lift to the airport?"

 

"No, I have a camel double‑parked downstairs.  Actually, Asad was kind enough to already offer.  Thank you anyway."  Munroe rose as the Arab, dressed in street clothes, entered.  He saw them and waved a greeting.

 

"Are you ready to leave, Salem?" he asked without preamble as he approached the table. 

The woman pushed aside her soft drink and stood.  I'd like to say good‑bye to Illya before I go.  Is there time?"

 

"Of course, but I have one thing to ask Napoleon first."

 

Napoleon gestured openly with his hands and reached for his coffee. "Ask away, my friend."

 

"Where did you plant that explosive?  It must have been in an oven, the way that machine went up."

 

"Of a sort," Napoleon said.  "Do you remember what you had me doing while I was checking the machine out?"

 

"Collecting camel dung for fires."

 

"As you mentioned before, there was really no place to put it on the laser itself without attracting attention.  I wasn't sure that, if I put it in the sand, it would get hot enough, since a light color tends to reflect more heat than it absorbs, as I'm sure Illya will vouch for.  Since there was a proliferation of camel droppings in the area, I simply placed the explosive in a pile of manure and let Mother Sun do the rest.  I figure it probably got about 200 degrees in there by mid‑afternoon."  He looked from one incredulous face to the other and shrugged his shoulders. "It was just a working example of the shit hitting the fan..."

 

 

 

                             

 


End file.
